A Canine Winter
by embeodbi
Summary: This story is my best guess at how the Sansa/Sandor storyline will progress.  The first chapter starts immediately after Arya leaves Sandor at the Trident. Told from the POV of Sansa/Alayne, Sandor, the Elder Brother, and the Mad Mouse.
1. The Elder Brother

**A/N: The first chapter starts immediately after Arya leaves Sandor at the Trident. Of course, these characters belong to George R. R. Martin. **

**Chapter 1: The Elder Brother **

Light was filtering through the thin cattails scattered at the river base. The sun flashed in his eyes, and the Elder Brother broke through the reeds and stared restlessly at the flowing Trident. No bodies today. The gravediggers would receive a few hours reprieve, but inevitably bodies would wash ashore, and it was his duty to the gods to see they were properly buried. It was only fair; the river provided the brothers with food, water, driftwood, swords and silver, and even the occasional ruby, perhaps from Rhaegar's downfall. They least they could do was to bury the dead that washed up along with the more useful provisions.

His mind drifted, as always, to his own small role in the Battle of the Trident, so long ago. He was once a nameless, useless knight on the wrong side of a battle. A listless drunk with no direction other than what his liege lord commanded. Now he was a nameless brother, but at least he was at peace in the Monastery on the Quiet Isle. His muscular body shuddered in relief at having been rescued by the brothers. What would his life have been like had he been left to wake naked in the river, with no boots or coin to his name? His piety, genuine, derived from being rescued from the bottom dregs of humanity and accepted, without question, into a brotherhood that silently worked to aid man.

The Elder Brother rode noiselessly along the riverbank, restlessly scanning for driftwood or other items that could be of use to his brotherhood. A slight nickering caught his ear. He slowed his palfrey and listened. He raised his arm, and the four silent brothers behind him stopped as well. Second Chance twitched her ears and swished her tail nervously. She sensed something she didn't like.

A horse, black as the night, was drinking from the river a quarter league upstream. It was momentarily frozen, like a startled deer, but this horse was no prey. With a loud scream the horse jumped over a large piece of driftwood and melted away from the riverbank.

A strong horse would be a boon to the Quiet Isle. It was autumn; time to reinforce housing, increase their food supplies, and attempt one last crop. The black horse screamed and kicked as it moved away, but the Elder Brother and his four companions followed the high-stepping stallion and attempted to surround it.

As the brothers broke into a gallop, relishing the race, the Elder Brother thought mayhaps he heard a cry. He chance glanced back at the base of a tree and reigned in Second Change as his brothers rode past him. He quietly dismounted and stared at the slumped bundle of clothing, mail, and bandages at the base of the tree. The figure was sobbing and gasping in pain, with one eye crusted shut by blood. The other eye stared at the Elder Brother, hopeful that his arrival could hasten his dismal death.

He was a man near dead, by the Elder Brother's reckoning. He smelled of illness, and upon closer inspection, his leg emitted a foul odor and a white puss oozed from a poorly bandaged wound. The Elder Brother sighed. The gravediggers wouldn't have a break, after all.

"Mercy, please," the man cried, his voice drawn, but with a spark of hopefulness. The man simply hoped to die faster and more painlessly, nothing more.

The Elder Brother was strong and muscular, certainly capable to end this man's suffering, but he had sworn, when he entered the brotherhood, to never kill again. His mind drifted to his own fate by the same river, and he was soon overcome with curiosity as to the identity of the poor man whose fate was poorer than his own. He gently dropped to the ground and knelt by the man's side. His identity should be known, so someone could mourn him and cherish a life extinguished too short.

The odor was overwhelming and the Elder Brother held his breath as he carefully turned the stranger's head. He touched a patch of bare skin; it was warm. He was feverous. Infected. He probably deserved the mercy of a quick death.

A quick death. Yet, if a strange brother had once saved the Elder Brother, shouldn't he return the deed? The Elder Brother felt a kinship with this man. Here he was, a lost man along the Trident just has he had been. The Warrior must have sent him. It was the Gods speaking, and the Elder Brother's job to save him.

Gently, the Elder Brother turned the man's head. His face was disfigured; one eye obscured by burn scars, an ear missing. Dried blood dripped from a dirty rag wrapped upon his head. The man's eyes slowly, painfully fluttered as he attempted to open them when he felt pressure from the Elder Brother's fingertips. Groaning, the man quit the attempt to open his eyes and instead moaned. It was a hopeless sound, the moan of a man begging to die, waiting to die. The Elder Brother's heart broke, and he learned forward, ignoring the stench, trying to catch the mumbled words that came from the man's mouth. They sounded like "mercy", "song", and "bird". Queer words to come from the mouth of a hardened soldier. But he was feverous, and probably delirious.

Nonetheless, the Elder Brother was intrigued. Though the Quiet Isle was isolated and not yet touched directly by the war, he still believed he knew the identity of the man near death. He picked up a helm that had been negligently tossed beside the slumped figure. It featured a snarling, fearful dog. "You are the Hound," he whispered, incredulous, peeking under the dirty bandages. Burns covered his face, and the man winced from the tiny movement. The Elder Brother knew the Hound was feared, an excellent swordsman, and had been sworn to King Joffrey.

A neigh and scream caused the Elder Brother to turn his head. Somehow his brothers had successfully corralled the black horse back towards the river. Perhaps, with the help of another strong horse, the brotherhood would have an additional autumn crop, after all.

He turned his attention back to the grievously injured man as his brothers attempted to subdue the black horse. He had stopped mumbling and slumped back into unconsciousness.

The Elder Brother stood, found his wine, and forced it into the man's mouth. He moaned, but accepted it gratefully, and whispered a hoarse thanks for a taste of his favorite drink. The Elder Brother whispered gently, "Are you tired of fighting? I was once like you. A brother found me, accepted me, and I am happy. Shed your sword and knighthood and join us. Find a purpose." He wrapped his arms around the man, ignoring the foul odors. The man sank back into his arms, warmed by the gentle touch, which is rarely given to an ugly, hardened man.

The man muttered insolently, "I'm no knight," before dropping back into unconsciousness. The Elder Brother took that as consent. He slowly lowered the man to the ground, and walked to his horse for supplies to create a poultice. He cleaned him the best he could with river water, and gently wiped his brow. He was determined to help this man find inner peace and purpose, as he had. He quickly gathered a few rocks and deposited them atop the now unneeded sword of the Hound. He firmly stuck the snarling helm on top to mark the grave. He was determined a new man would be born in his place. The Elder Brother silently prayed to the Crone to lead the Hound safely on his way to the Stranger, and to the Mother and Smith to give the new man love and purpose.


	2. The Hound

**A/N: These characters belong to George R. R. Martin.**

**Chapter 2: The Hound**

His head was swimming. Was he still on his horse? He thought he had stopped to rest beneath a tree. Why hadn't the wolf granted him mercy yet? He remembered with a worried shake that he didn't deserve mercy and broke into deep aching sobs. Of course he didn't deserve mercy. He was a cruel and uncaring dog that killed children. All of Westeros knew that! He bitterly mused upon that idea. All seven kingdoms probably thought he was better off dead. The Hound he had nothing to do but think while he waited to die, so he sobbed, gasped in pain, and thought. Too bad he didn't have a jug full of sour wine to go with the sour memories.

During his travels with the young wolf he had been worried. Not for her, he assured himself. He was unable to admit he cared for anyone, even as he sat alone, dying. She was a wretched little child, even if she had been the sister of his little bird. No, he was cruel and thus certainly had only cared for himself. He had needed gold so he could survive the winter. He had stopped at a village, offered to do work, and they had stayed for several days. He'd felt hope, then. Perhaps he wouldn't be judged by his ugly face and past actions. Perhaps they could be accepted there, a safe and comfortable place to winter. But no, no village wanted the Hound in their midst. Once the work was done, they'd kicked him out. He was good for nothing but a temporary fix. Forced him out of their village. Winter would soon be upon them, and they had no extra food for a dog. No one did. He would starve this winter, shut out by Westeros. Dying here by the Trident seemed a good idea as any other. He had no place else to go, anyway. No one cared whether he lived, but certainly many wanted him dead. Here by the river was a peaceful death, even. At least he wasn't dying from that horrific fire sword of Dondarrion. As his anger grew at his lack of acceptance, so too grew the pain and fever in his leg. Mercifully, he blacked out.

He woke to the sound of hooves. Perhaps he would be trampled to death. That was an appropriate ending to a dog gone bad. He tried to squint and see the rider, but he only saw red and fast moving shapes. Maybe the wolf had returned to kill him. He called out for mercy once again.

Mayhaps it was actual wolves, and he had mistaken the sound of horses. It was quieter now. Perhaps they were just in the woods, waiting to attack and eat him. He just hoped he'd die soon. The waiting only strengthened his flashbacks, and none of them were good. He thought he felt the gentle touch of a human and called out for his little bird. Who else would dare touch him? She had touched him that night. He felt hope; she would be kind. But then his memories flooded back. He had held a knife to her throat, stolen her song. She had no reason to be kind. She spoke, and it was not his bird at all, it was a strange man, a man who had the nerve to call him a knight. Bloody idiot. With the last of his strength he corrected the stranger before once again losing awareness.

At some point later he felt movement. What had happened to the sturdy, stationary tree? He must be on a horse. Tied to a horse like a sack of grain. Maybe he had heard hooves earlier, after all. He WAS on a horse, wasn't he? His fever had not broken, and his mind struggled to comprehend his situation. He laughed hysterically at the irony of having named his horse Stranger. Was his horse, in fact, the Stranger returned? Was the Stranger even now escorting him to a hell? He was pleasantly surprised to learn there was an afterlife. He wondered which of the seven hells he'd been sent to…he hoped it was whichever one Gregor would wind up in. He may have failed to kill him in this life, but the afterlife was forever.

His leg. Why couldn't he move his leg? It once again began to throb and each small and careful step by the horse jiggled him such that he was sure he was being hit by the broad side of an axe. Despite his exhaustion and pain, his head slowly cleared as the throbbing strengthened. Who was he? Where had the wolf gone? Wasn't she going to grant him mercy? Was he really in one of the seven hells? He ached, sobbed that he was sorry for killing Micheal, or whatever the dirty butcher boy had been named. Why was she mad? How was he to remember his name? What was his name? The Hound. His job was to protect the king. That is who he was. The king's sworn shield. His mind flashed white. White. He was a member of the Kingsguard. He was NOT a knight. Knights hurt the weak. Hurt the weak, like his poor little bird. The king and his guards hurt her and he did nothing. Did nothing… just like before. "I deserve to be in the worst hell," he realized, sobbing once again.

He slipped back into unconsciousness, into a nightmare. In his dream, he was a knight, impeccably dressed and riding upright on a beautiful white destrier. Why was he a knight? He tried to rip the title off, but failed. How do you remove a title? It was invisible! Do you remove your shield? Or your sword? He threw them both down. He kept his word, he was not a hypocrite, and he was not a knight. People appeared, crowding him, laughing, and mocking him, laugher everywhere. He slumped in his saddle, embarrassed. "A knight," they called, "you can't remove it. You stole a song; you must be a knight!" He refused to listen to the people chirping their harsh words. "You held a knife to my throat! You stole a song! Cruel!" they shouted. The Hound frantically decided to throw down his armor. If he removed his armor, could he prevent people from thinking he was a knight? He dismounted from the white dream version of Stranger and tried to remove his mail. Everyone was laughing as he struggled. His anger grew and he screamed as it finally flew off of his body, scattering over and into the crowd of onlookers. It landed on a beautiful auburn-haired maiden. She abruptly stopped laughing and started bleeding instead. The crowd grew angry, the crowd grew in height. Everyone was eight feet tall, ominous looking, and heading his way. The girl was on the ground, bleeding away. He jumped back on Stranger, now black, and galloped in the opposite direction.

He started laughing madly at that point in his dream. He hurt her! Again. He howled and the howling laugh turned more and more doglike with each scream. He chance glanced down upon his chest as he raced away, and looked with horror as the three dogs of his sigil, embroidered on his tunic, burst forth from his chest, barking and howling. He looked to his arm, and the burn transformed to a thick black fur. He blinked and then realized he was actually the second dog, his human body and horse fusing together until he had four legs and a long muzzle. The hooves softened into paws, and the other two dogs, a gigantic male, black in color, and tiny female with a reddish tinge to her fur, were howling happily, waiting for him to join them. The mad crowd and bleeding maiden had faded away. It was quiet and peaceful. His head was no longer swimming and he ran, thrilled to be racing with his own pack. He barked happily.

The Hound woke from a slight touch to his head. He looked up and saw a man dressed in a dun colored cowl changing his ear bandages. The Hound was groggy, but vaguely realized this man had fixed his head wound, as he looked upon him with clear vision from two eyes rather than one. The eye crusted shut by blood must have been cleaned. He was simultaneously filled with gratitude and hate. He had no life left to live, why was this man prolonging it?

The man propped him up with a cushion and started to pour a broth into the Hound's mouth. His confused emotions converged upon hunger and he drank spitefully, trying not to show his eagerness for the food or his annoyance at being hand-fed. But he was still thirsty. His hoarse voice mumbled, "wine?" but the brother shook his head, smiled politely, and continued to silently spoon the broth into the Hound's mouth until it was gone. Only then did he produce a small glass of dreamwine.

The Hound sighed happily and studied the source of pain in his leg as he drank. It had not yet been treated, and he could still smell the wound. "Where am I?" he asked roughly. The man simply smiled, shook his head, took his empty wine glass, and softly pushed his body back against the straw mattress. The Hound was full of questions, but weary and fell back asleep.

He once again dreamed of his small dog pack. They were cheerfully tumbling together on thick yellow autumn grass, the warm sun shining down upon them. He was the middle-sized dog. He suddenly realized that the dogs were the same in number and gender as never-forgotten siblings, and his happiness grew suspicious. His family had never been happy. The brother and sister playfully and innocently nipped at him. Perhaps he had no need to brood. Dogs were not knights or humans, after all. The sister dog nipped again, pushing her cold nose against his shank. What had been her name? He turned to nip back, joyful to be loved and included. To have a sister again, someone to look up to him. It was his second chance. Perhaps he hasn't been sent to one of the seven hells, but instead had a new life with a chance to be happy! As soon as he felt that love he had long been denied, he felt fear. What if he lost it? A sudden growl and gruff bark caused him to turn and search for the cause. Were the blissful dogs being threatened? Were there wolves in the sunny forest? The brother dog's growl wasn't directed away and into the trees, however. It was addressed to him. With a shock, he realized he had a toy, a wooden knight, in his muzzle. He dropped it, and frantically tried to bury it in the dirt. It was too late. The brother saw it and attacked. Each bite burned. He was chewing his ear! His eye! He howled. The brother dog attacked his leg. The pain was unbearable and he forgot how to defend himself. He whimpered and howled.

The Hound awoke from his dream with a start. He screamed, tears streaming down his face. He tried pounding his fists, but they didn't move. Opening his eyes, he saw four strong men holding his body down and a fifth man cleaning his leg wound. He howled like the dog in his dream, and a sixth strange man nimbly poured milk of poppy down his throat.

He quickly slipped back into unconsciousness. Back into his nightmare.

Snow was falling softly, and there was no sign of the previous warm autumn sun. The brother dog, he knew with a certainty, was Gregor. He was scratching and biting at his sister. Each bite pooled a brilliant red against the white powder settled upon her fur. She was such a small dog. How was she so small when the Hound and Gregor were so large? The Hound howled and rushed to attack Gregor; he had to protect his sister. Gregor turned into a jagged, snow-capped mountain and the Hound bounced off, wimping. The mountain had a jaw and kept biting the Hound's leg each time he attacked. Finally the Hound whimpered and limped away, bleeding. He curled against a tree as the victor dog, ridiculously dressed as a knight, howled successfully and moved to mount the small female. She submitted meekly. The Hound cried, cold and alone, against the tree. He had transformed back into a broken, unloved, unwanted human.

This time the Hound woke from his dream quietly, with tears pooling in his eyes. They threatened to overflow, and he sat up and looked at his surroundings to distract himself. He was on a clean straw pallet in a small, barely furnished room. An oil lamp burned beside his bed, illuminating a jug. He fingers groped forward, fumbling for it. His body ached from the movement, his fingers burned, but he was successful and brought it gratefully to his lips. He cursed his lack of luck and choked on the water. He threw it down angrily and instead picked up the plate of fresh bread and butter. He ate slowly, staring at the small light source burning by his bedside.

Eventually dawn arrived and with it, a burly man with a bowl of porridge in one hand, a jug of wine in the other, and a faint smile upon his lips. Was this the man who had cared for him? Saved him from death? Denied him his mercy? The Hound was uncertain whether he wanted to throttle or thank him. The man spoke, "I hope you are starting to feel better. We could certainly use an extra pair of hands around here this winter."

Unbeknownst to him, a small answering smile appeared on the Hound's face. Mayhaps he had found a place to winter, after all.

**A/N: just to be clear, these are normal, delirious dreams, not warg dreams. I also took some liberties with his sister. I feel like there had to be some common trigger point for why Sandor was (initially, at least) so interested in helping a scared little girl like Sansa; her plight may have reminded him of how he lost his sister.**


	3. The Mad Mouse

**A/N: The characters belong to George R. R. Martin.**

**Chapter 3: The Mad Mouse**

Ser Shadrich drank deeply of his hot mulled wine, and continued to chat amiably with Lord Baelish and Sers Byron and Morgarth. It was near dawn, but he was not tired. He had just escorted Lord Baelish from the Corbray wedding to a private meeting with Lady Waynwood and then from there to the Gates of the Moon, and he felt proud to be a sword defending such a powerful man. Baelish was the Lord Protector of the Vale, after all. And Ser Shadrich was starting to gain his trust. It was much more comfortable than acting as a poor hedge knight working for the merchant Hibald. Perhaps, in a few years, he would be able to reestablish his status he had lost to ransoms during the Battle of the Blackwater.

What he didn't understand was why Littlefinger needed extra swords. Yes, he had heard things were unsettled in the Vale, as the people were unhappy with an outsider, namely Baelish, as the Lord Protector, but of late it seemed as though the people were starting to accept him. So why hire swords now? Perhaps it was merely the fear of winter. The war, though it never reached the Vale, had deeply crippled much of Westeros, and there would be food shortages and starving this winter. Perhaps he was worried the hungry would invade the Vale.

Regardless of the reasons, Ser Shadrich was content with his role. It had taken him several months to reach the Vale, traveling first through Duskendale as an escort to Hibald and then boarding a rickety ship for a short trip to Gulltown. The short trip had left him weak and unable to hold down food. With very little money, he sought out work as a hedge knight as he traveled west from Gulltown. Luck was on his side and he avoided the mountain clans. He had heard that one of the Royces or other noble families had cleared out most of the clans. For that, he was grateful.

Even as he looked for work, he was still searching for her. He never gave up that search. He wouldn't, until that bag of gold, promised by Varys, was safe within his pockets. But for now, he was comfortable and content to continue his search in a nice comfortable style.

He took another sip of his wine, and was staring thoughtfully into the crackling fire when the door opened. He rose with the others when a tall young girl entered the room. Baelish asked her for a kiss and revealed she was his daughter.

She was a beautiful girl, but the Mad Mouse only looked at young maidens for one reason: to assess whether or not she was Sansa Stark. In the crackling light of the fire he saw her young age and graceful body. Her eyes appeared blue, but her hair… too dark. Perhaps it was the shadow from the flickering light. For one glorious moment, Ser Shadrich envisioned himself triumphant, gold dragons dripping from his fingers. He saw himself boasting to the other gold seekers, that big wench searching for her 'high-born sister' crying from disappointment. But then he realized that no, her hair was brown, not auburn. Besides, she was Littlefinger's daughter.

He sat back down, disappointed, but used to the feeling. He thought he saw Sansa Stark three times a day. It just came with the territory of searching for her. He did his best to make small talk, truthfully telling her they were all louts, before being ushered out of the room.

Littlefinger had hired him to protect her. He might as well be friendly. This could be an interesting winter, after all. He went to bed still pondering why Littlefinger thought he and his daughter needed extra protection.


	4. Alayne

**A/N: These characters belong to GRRM. **

**Chapter 4: Alayne**

Alayne Stone nearly floated out of her father's solar, her head dreaming of wishes she once thought would never be fulfilled. Though near dawn, she was bursting with joy and energy. She did her best to remain composed as her father's guards led her to her new room in the West Tower at the Gates of the Moon. She gazed at her new surroundings. It was a small room, as befitting a bastard, yet the furnishings were well made, as befitting the only child of the Lord Protector. Alayne felt at home immediately when she saw beautiful silver mocking birds adorning the deep green drapery; the Sansa in her protested. Once her door was closed, Alayne hastily prepared for sleep. She had promised to share a bed with Myranda Royce, and was sure she was late.

As she washed she reminded herself that her engagement was not yet announced. She must calm herself and not give it away. She giggled. A night with a girl nearly her age and an engagement! She felt the luckiest girl in the world in that moment.

A knock at her door caused her to jump. She prayed to the seven gods it wasn't Maester Colemon coming to drag her to Robin. She had promised him bedtime stories, but was hoping he was already sound asleep. She truly did care for Robin. He _was_ just a lonely boy; but the practice of caring for him wore easily on her patience and nerves. Reading bedtime stories to Robin as he shook and nuzzled her would be a quick way to ruin her perfect day. She dried her face, straightened her gown, and answered the door.

It was Myranda Royce. Surprised, Alayne smiled, but not too broadly, as she reminded herself to stay in control of her emotions, and said, "Randa! How kind of you to stop and see me." She was proud she had remembered to call her by her nickname. She hadn't a friend for so long and Alayne was very much looking forward to some form of friendship, even if her father had warned her not to forget herself around Myranda.

Myranda grinned, pushed her way into the room, and looked around approvingly. "I figured you'd need help finding my suite. Do you like the room? I ordered it furnished for you."

Alayne nodded shyly, "Thank you so much. You can tell it has had a woman's touch." She had heard that the Gates of the Moon was a lively, fun place when Myranda Royce was home. She hoped it was true. She hadn't had fun since the brief period at King's Landing when the Tyrell girls had welcomed her as a future sister. Of course, her marriage to Tyrion had dashed that.

Alayne followed Myranda across the snow-covered courtyard to her suites. Myranda chatted happily, pointing out buildings in the darkness. Alayne found herself hoping Myranda was sleepier than she appeared; she was terrified of her pillow tax.

No such luck, Alayne thought to herself once the pair was snuggled cozily beneath warm furs on Myranda's four-person bed. The napping upon her mule must have freshened Myranda, who seemed wide-awake and began a much more intimate description of her husband's untimely death. Alayne had been sure Myranda was just trying to make her blush with her bawdy talk on the descent from the Eyrie. But with the drapes closed and the oil lamps extinguished, Myranda would not be able to see the red that had quickly and permanently appeared on Alayne's face. Myranda must have another purpose in mind. Alayne knew it was her job to figure out what that purpose may be.

She remembered her father's warning, that Myranda was shrew and intelligent. Yet she also hungered for girl talk. She certainly wasn't dismissive of her father's advice; but she was so desirous of friendship. At nearly fourteen (no, nearly fifteen, she was Alayne), despite being married, she was inexperienced, and both horrified and curious at Myranda's witty anecdotes.

She searched her mind, trying to settle upon a question she could ask in order to contribute to the conversation. She knew Myranda wanted to talk, and she also knew there was no way she could willingly confess any of her own little fantasies, innocent as they were. And she couldn't bring up Harry because her engagement had not yet been announced.

Her mind wandered back to her own wedding night. The imp was only a half-sized man. Were all parts of him only half the size of a regular man? She remembered his pole sticking straight up and gulped. It had seemed plenty big enough already. What if the man was huge? Seven feet tall? She blushed, remembering their kiss…. No, she certainly couldn't ask _that_ question. Even in her dreams about Loras, who was slim, perfectly normal-sized, and every girl's dream, the most they ever did was kiss. She wasn't ready to make her fantasy anymore…

Alayne finally settled on a relatively safe question that she figured Myranda would still approve, and meekly asked, "Does it hurt?"

Myranda laughed heartily, glad to finally have an immodest question from the shy girl. Alayne, relieved to have a playful response, retorted by pushing her cold feet against Myranda's. The pair giggled and screamed and Alayne finally rested peacefully, knowing she once again had a friend.

As Myranda Royce finally drifted asleep, Alayne Stone's cheerful happiness was replaced by the suspicious brooding of Sansa Stark.

A marriage. She was already married, despite it never being consummated. She wondered if Tyrion was still alive. Sometimes she felt wicked and wished him dead, so she could be a widow and not part of the Lannister family. She had trusted Cersei, thought her a friend, and Cersei betrayed her. Her son was no better, abusing her verbally and physically. How could she live as a lion? She was a wolf! Or a mockingbird, she thought wryly.

But Tyrion might be different. While Joffrey was stripping her naked in front of his own court (her face reddened just at the memory), Tyrion had waddled to her rescue, ordered the abuse to be stopped, and took the time to have her properly bathed and clothed. How could she wish someone dead who stopped her from gods-know-what-abuse?

When they were married, he never forced his vile body upon her. He was patient with her despite her coldness. Maybe she shouldn't wish him dead, and just hope for an annulment due to their lack of bedding. Petyr would easily be able to manage that.

Not that it mattered, one way or the other. Tyrion was probably dead, and Sansa no longer existed, either, she thought firmly. It was too dangerous for her identity to be known. Everyone thought she and Tyrion killed Joffrey. How could she come out of hiding when the true killer was in part her father?

Petyr was good to her. Yes, he made her uncomfortable when he forced a very unfatherly-like kiss upon her, but he never touched her inappropriately, and had just made her a fantastic marriage. He cared for her like a true father.

A new marriage. She would, when it was eventually revealed she was Sansa Stark, unite the Vale and the North. The North would flock to rebuild her home… But Robin would have to die before Harry the Heir could inherit the Vale.

"Father won't kill him," she tried to assure herself. He certainly would die on his own. They had to wait for the marriage, anyway. No reason to hurry things. And Robin was so very weak. He would die soon enough.

Most days, as Alayne, she forgot that Petyr had killed Lysa, his wife, and her own aunt. Yet now the memory flooded back. "It was because he was protecting me," she mumbled in her mind. She was sure of it. Petyr was a good person. A good person, yes, who used Ser Dontos to steal her away from King's Landing and killed Joffrey. Not one that would kill his own son-in-law who was going to die anyway.

But if Robin were to die, through marriage she would inherit the Eyrie and the entire Vale. She let her imagination run wild as she imagined her rule with Harry. He looked remarkably like Ser Loras in her imagination. They would rebuild Winterfell, and place their eldest born son there to rule. She would have her fairy-tale ending, after all. No, she remembered. The eldest born would live in the Eyrie. But her second-born son, he'd be the Lord of Winterfell.

They would have to have sons! So many sons. She knew he was very good looking, so it shouldn't be hard to do. Myranda had told her he was attractive as they were making the trek down from the Eyrie. It must be true; she hasn't known of the engagement at that time. So she had no reason to exaggerate. Women loved Harry. Even her father had told her that. Her dream castles faltered as she imagined all the women in love with Harry…Would she be a jealous wife?

Her mother, Catelyn, had hated her father's bastard, Jon Snow. Sansa had always wanted to be a perfect woman, like her mother. When she was younger, she didn't understand the hatred, yet she wanted to emulate her mother, and was never more than icily polite to Jon. Yet Jon was always good to her in spite of her cold behavior. He was already chosen to be the Lord Commander on the wall. She laughed quietly. Maybe he was born to deal with all kinds of cold. She no longer harbored icy feelings toward him. She was a bastard now, too.

Would she harbor ill feelings toward Harry's bastards? She tried to picture her mother's eyes, full of ice at the sight of Jon, but the picture was fuzzy. A wave of anguish enveloped Sansa as she realized, once again, she would never see her mother or family. Guilt that she couldn't remember her mother's features broke into silent sobs. She would never see another image of her mother. Any drawings made would have burned when Winterfell was sacked. Alayne was furious with herself. Here she was, in Myranda Royce's bed and crying about a previous life. She needed to forget that life. It was over. She was now a bastard and must be bastard brave.

Silently wiping away her tears, she rethought her position. Harry the Heir had one bastard daughter, and a second bastard child on the way. They would be older than any children born to Sansa, and, if she was still Alayne, perhaps have higher-born mothers. What if they married and people didn't believe she was Sansa Stark? She no longer had a direwolf to prove her identity. Alayne was only bastard born, after all. It could mean a dispute. What people of the Vale would side with the bastard daughter of the hated Lord Protector? Would people instead flock to a natural son of Harry, if he were born of a highborn Eyrie woman? Alayne was a lowborn interloper. A chill spread to her bones. Maybe she wouldn't get her fairytale ending after all.

She took a deep breath to calm down. Her father excelled at the game of thrones. He would make everything right. He always does. He already had Lady Waynwood on his side, after all, and just months before she'd been threatening to remove Petyr as the Lord Protector! She soon convinced herself that Petyr would make all things right, and she would have a fairytale ending after all.

Alayne glanced back at Myranda. She was still sound asleep. Alayne closed her own eyes, and tried again to imagine what it would be like to kiss Harry. She thought about being adventurous, and imagining some of the things Myranda had been chattering on about, but she just wasn't ready for that. And the sweet kiss she kept trying to imagine with Harry turned into another kiss, one she had been dreaming of since the Battle of the Blackwater. She angrily shoved her pillow over her head, but it didn't extinguish the memory.

**A/N: This 'sub-chapter' isn't necessary to the Sansa/Sandor story, which is why I am including it in the 'Alayne' chapter rather than as its own chapter. But it was just something that came to me as I was thinking about Myranda's questions on the mountain descent. **

**Chapter 4part2: Myranda**

Myranda Royce woke and groaned. It had been a long day, and she wished she could lounge in bed longer. But as Mistress of the Gates of the Moon she knew she needed to be up and checking on the feast.

She rolled over to say good morning, or rather, afternoon, to Alayne, but the girl was gone. How late was it? She rose and slipped on a robe. She noticed a small note on her table that read, in an elegant script: _Dear Randa, thanks for a lovely day. See you at the feast- Alayne_. Myranda snorted. That girl was entirely too polite, but she'd be a good amusement to pass the winter. Myranda had liked her and enjoyed the prospect of corrupting her, just a little.

Myranda's backside was sore. Those mules were really not the best way to travel, she mused. Still, they had served her purpose, and despite the cold, she had enjoyed her time travelling down the mountain.

She dressed quickly and went to the kitchens. She inquired after lemons, which she had heard, of late, Lord Robert preferred, but there were none to be had. Maybe none until next summer. She hoped this winter didn't last as long as everyone thought it would.

She stopped by her father's solar to discuss her trip up and down the Eyrie. Lord Baelish himself was inside, sipping wine and laughing over a joke told by Nestor Royce. Myranda cursed to herself. She was hastily dressed and knew her father would be angered that she came to guests in such simple attire. But how was she to know Littlefinger would be sitting in that solar? Why hadn't she bathed before checking on the kitchens? She paused before the door and straightened her dress to better show off her figure.

She entered, curtsied to the Lord Protector, smiled, and inquired after his trip to the Corbray wedding. Baelish's eyes twinkled as he answered. This was a man who knew how to keep his secrets. He intrigued her, despite his appearance. He was short, but so was Myranda. He had a bastard daughter, but she had taken that singer to bed. Yes, Baelish would be the perfect match for her shrewd mind, so her father thought. Myranda tended to agree with him, but was uncertain she could catch him. The man clearly had his own plans and she doubted he'd included her in them.

Baelish politely excused himself after a few minutes and Myranda bellowed at her father for not warning her Littlefinger would be present. Nestor Royce ignored the outburst and commented mildly, "that man is up to something new and I expect you to figure it out." He then inquired after her descent from the Eyrie.

Myranda shrugged. "Alayne is very guarded. I'm certain she is a maiden still, so I don't know how much I trust her judgment in these matters. She is just too innocent. When I asked whether her father planned to marry again, it was clear she had never considered the idea." She continued, "I hinted he cannot mourn forever, and could use a pretty young woman to help him out."

"Did she respond to that?" Nestor Royce shifted in his chair.

Myranda thought back. "She never answered. I started asking her whether his little finger really was little…"

Nestor Royce finally lost his temper. "And that, my dear daughter, is why Lady Waynwood rejected you outright for marriage with Harrold Hardyng. She wants a sweet girl, not a bar wench. You need to control your speech."

Myranda laughed off the insult. "Harry needs a strong woman like me. He'd walk all over a weak girl who doesn't speak her mind. He'd have her up in her elbows with bastards. Besides, I thought we were done with Harry the Heir. My new conquest was to be Lord Baelish." She paused and rolled her eyes. "I'm sure I'd make a fantastic mother to Alayne. Gods know she needs someone to spice up her dull little life."

After her conversation with her father Myranda decided she'd better bathe before running into any other potential husbands or lovers. She went back to her room and called for water to be drawn. After her bath she selected a fine violet gown to best show off her buxom. She _was_ in the hunting for a new husband, and she knew the man her father desired for her would be at the feast. She'd better show off the goods. And if Littlefinger wasn't interested, well, there were plenty of other men available to entertain her for an evening.

She went to the kitchen, where things were still running smoothly.

Bored, Myranda found a jug of Arbor Gold and went on a hunt for Mya Stone. She found her tending the mules, as always, and dragged her away to her suite for gossip.

Myranda leaned back against the cushions as she thought over her day. She poured herself a glass of Arbor Gold and offered a second cup to Mya Stone, who had seated herself across the table.

Mya was a bit presumptuous and rough around the edges, but Myranda and Mya grew up together, and both egged on the other's self esteem. Myranda paused, deciding where to start to best gauge Mya's true feelings. She decided to jump right in.

"Did you hear Lothor Brune is smitten with you?" she asked casually, sipping her Arbor, and keeping her gaze firmly on Mya's beautiful blue Baratheon eyes.

She thought she glimpsed the eyes widening, but it was quickly replaced with a smirk. "Hum." Another smirk. Was there a slight reddening of her checks as well? Myranda couldn't tell. Too bad. The two young women loved having fodder to tease each other.

"Well?"

"Well what?" Mya stared before sighing, "Mychel. Of course."

Myranda sighed back sympathetically. "Maybe you just need a distraction." Myranda was great at finding distractions after feasts, and fully expected to find one tonight. Mya was beautiful with those big blue eyes, and Myranda knew she could do the same if she only tried. But she wouldn't. Mya was still in love with Mychel and may mope around forever.

"Where'd you hear that one, anyway?" Mya asked, changing the subject and scuffing at her boots.

"Alayne Stone." Myranda paused. "Do you think she really is as innocent as she appears?" Myranda had just spent a day atop a mule, doing her best to pry secrets out of the girl, yet all she managed to do was produce polite smiles and blushing cheeks. "Either the child is the Maiden returned or the best mummer yet seen in the Vale."

Mya snorted and managed, "well, she was raised by septas," before dissolving into giggles. The pair finished their wine and made their way to the feast. Myranda walked with her chest stuck out, hoping to catch Lord Baelish's interest, though she knew a man such as him clearly had other things on his mind when wedding a woman. He had married Lysa Arryn, after all, and she wasn't nearly as attractive as Myranda. But plenty of other men eyed her as well.

At least she had a few challenges to keep herself occupied during the upcoming winter.


	5. The Elder Brother II

**A/N: Characters belong to GRRM**

**Chapter 5: The Elder Brother II  
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The Elder Brother sat on his preferred settle in Hermit Hole and re-read a message he had received earlier in the day. Very few ravens were sent to the Quiet Isle, so any message that arrived was always of utmost importance. This particular message had arrived from the new Septon at King's Landing. He was apparently styling himself as the 'High Sparrow' and, with Queen Cersei's blessing, was reinstating the Faith Militant to battle the nonbelievers, chiefly King Stannis and his heretical red god. The letter asked (or strongly requested, in the Elder Brother's opinion) whether any brothers on the Quiet Isle were willing to become Warrior's Sons or Poor Fellows. The Elder Brother mused upon the idea.

He was not willing to join, but perhaps some of his brothers would be interested in the order of the Poor Fellows. It seemed unlikely, however. Most of the occupants of the Quiet Isle were here precisely to avoid the barbaric wars and fighting occurring throughout Westeros. He sighed, carefully rerolled the letter, and stood.

The Elder Brother slowly walked amongst his brothers, wondering which, if any, were willing to give up their quiet cloisters to a nomadic life battling small fights for their gods. Winter would soon arrive and everyone thought it would be long and cold. He wondered how many thousands of brave brothers would perish for their gods. Why must we always be at battle?

The Elder Brother slowly made his way out of doors. It was breezy and the sun was shining as he walked across the grounds. But not for much longer, he knew. He found himself stopping and watching the gravediggers. Would the former member of the Kingsguard want to join the Faith Militant? It was, in words, very similar to his former position as a sworn shield to the prince. Of course, in practice, he was sure the Poor Fellows weren't nearly as well fed or sheltered as the prince's dog. But the Poor Fellows simply accompanied septons and other of the Faith to ensure they reached their destinations. They acted as a protector, just like a sworn shield. Perchance he would be enticed to join. There is comfort in familiarity.

Months had past since the Elder Brother rescued the man once known as the Hound. He watched him curiously as the novice brother patiently and clumsily dug endless graves in the lichyard of the Quiet Isle. The novice limped, and perhaps he would always be lame, but he was still strong and able to do the work of three brothers.

It was unusual, but the Elder Brother had decided to take the training of the new novice upon himself. He felt a kinship due to their similar pasts, and wanted to keep the novice's less-than-honorable background to himself, though Proctor Narbert had helped to heal him and learned his identity as well. Though they all worshipped the seven, he knew that a few brothers may still judge the novice on his past actions, and the Elder Brother wanted him to have a new chance at life. A second chance, he thought wryly.

While the novice brother had been feverous, the Elder Brother heard many causes for the Hound's pain and cruelty. Slowly, the Elder Brother had gained the novice's trust and heard the mishaps firsthand. The stories were often told in a rough manner, a lost attempt to make it seem as though he didn't care, that the events hadn't hurt him. But each story ended in great violent sobs that shook the man. After each tale the novice seemed slightly happier. Mayhaps having another person hear his pain helped release the built-up anger hidden for so long. At least that is what the Elder Brother hoped. It was hard to tell with this man. His life stability for the past decade had been built upon his skills to please Joffrey Baratheon. Whilst doing that, he managed to displease nearly every other person he interacted with. He may just be telling the Elder Brother what he wished to hear. But somehow, he didn't think so.

Today was the novice's day of confession. Though Brother Meribald had been to the island not three days past, the Elder Brother preferred the novice continued to confess only to himself and Brother Narbert.

They could not actually be called true confessions as the old Septon had been killed recently in the raids at the Saltpans, and the brotherhood had no replacement. Instead, the Elder Brother and some of the proctors simply served to listen and talk with the brothers as they confessed their sins.

The Septon Meribald had been a welcome blessing not only because the brothers could confess to him, but also for his news. Information traveled to the small brotherhood slowly, and Meribald always contained a wealth of gossip concerning the happenings of Westeros and beyond. But Meribald was with a woman searching for the Hound, and the Elder Brother didn't want her to chance stumble upon him or a hint of him. Best to keep the entire visiting party away from the novice.

The Elder Brother saw that the novice had finished his most recent grave and was slowly limping back to his cloister to wash before confession. The Elder Brother turned as well, and headed to the kitchens to fetch a jug of watered wine, bread, and butter before heading to the sept to wait and hear the novice's sins.

The Elder Brother did not hold formal confessions, as he was not a Septon. Rather, he went to the empty sept and set a small table with two chairs in front of the idol of the Stranger. He thought that the human manifestation of death was appropriate for today's confession. He picked a different god for each confession. He placed the wine jug and bread upon the table as a small offering. After a confession the Elder Brother requested the novice pray to each god. Sometimes confessions took the better part of a day, and the offering would be as much for the novice as for the gods.

Soon the novice shuffled inside with the help of a stout cane and sat in the empty chair at the small table. The broke bread together before the Elder Brother formally asked, "Do you have anything to confess before the Gods?"

The novice's voice was hoarse, but that comes with not talking but during confession. He cleared it with a sip of wine and muttered, "I'd confess I'm extremely curious as to why the Imp's squire was here a few days past."

The Elder Brother stared at him, confused. "Imp's squire?" Who was he talking about? Brienne of Tarth and her squire and Brother Meribald and Dog had been here…

"That child who talks to his feet. I saw him squiring for the Imp at the Battle of the Blackwater. I'd sooner forget the whole thing, but it is hard not to remember a squire who seems so inept." He paused, trying to restrain the anger building in his voice. "Was the Imp here?"

The Elder Brother recollected the man's feelings for Tyrion Lannister. He had tried to force the Hound back into a lost fight into a raging fire at the battle, but he knew that the Hound truly hated Lannister for bedding Sansa Stark, the poor girl child he had desired to protect from harm, as he had failed to protect his own innocent sister. The Hound had also seemed to hate him for his awkward appearance, odd considering his own, and his quick and confident tongue. The Elder Brother assured the novice that the young boy had not been here with Lannister, and had instead been squiring for the woman, Brienne of Tarth. "How did you feel when you saw him?" he asked.

"I must confess to the gods that I felt the great urge to throttle him, but I restrained myself and spayed dirt at his feet instead," the novice voiced, both amused and shamed at his previous anger. He bent his head and scratched at his burnt forearm. The Elder Brother nodded at the answer. He wondered if the novice's restraint had been due to newfound piety or his newfound lameness.

The Elder Brother was undecided if it was best to share with the novice the purpose of the Maid of Tarth's visit. Months were not years, and clearly the novice still felt strong emotions towards the people he had interacted with at King's Landing. Yet the novice felt, in his own eyes, that he had restrained himself. Perhaps that should be rewarded, and telling him of Tarth's purpose might make the novice more at ease, knowing someone was looking out for the Stark girls' to protect, rather than abuse, them. Since the novice brought the subject up, the Elder Brother decided to share the information.

"Did you notice the people with the squire? They were looking for Sansa Stark."

The novice's head flew up, eyes wide. "The Imp is searching for her?"

The Elder Brother shook his head slowly. "No, no mention was made of Tyrion Lannister. The Maid of Tarth seemed to be trying to find and save her before Queen Cersei found her. She had been told Lady Sansa was with you. I simply told her you had been with the Lady Arya, and that the Hound had not committed the atrocities at the Saltpans."

The novice muttered a thanks for helping to clear his name and continued to listen.

"Brienne of Tarth had mentioned she made an oath; I believe she truly means to keep the Stark girls safe, though how she plans to do that is beyond me." The Elder Brother shook his head slowly. He hoped the poor girls were safe. They had suffered enough. But it was unlikely. And, if by the gods' grace they were safe, removing them from their current location probably wouldn't help, he figured sadly. He had tried, in a roundabout way, to encourage her to go home and quit her plans, but she had stubbornly refused.

He continued, "I believe she doubted my word that you had not raided the Saltpans, so I assured her that the Hound was dead and I had buried him myself."

"You said I was dead?" the novice asked in a disbelieving voice.

"I said the Hound is dead," the Elder Brother corrected. "And I hope that he is. This novice that sits before me is a different man than that hate-filled Hound." The Elder Brother looked into the novice's eyes. They were pained, but stared back at him before drifting to look at the statue of the Stranger.

"Yes, he is gone."


	6. The Mad Mouse II

**A/N: These Characters all belong to GRRM. **

**We don't know much about the Mad Mouse, except for his very brief interactions with Brienne and Sansa, but I vaguely feel like is quick-witted (he bantered well with Sansa) and enjoys the company of friends (he seemed to get along well with the merchant who had hired him). He also said he was an honest man, so I'm going to take him at face value for that and depict him as follows. But feel free to disagree! **

**Chapter 6: The Mad Mouse II  
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A light snow had been falling consistently since Ser Shadrich's arrival at the Gates of the Moon a few weeks earlier and he had learned to ignore it. For the past week, however, the snow had been thick, deep, and beautiful. Shadrich had a playful heart, despite his rough hedge knight lifestyle, and enjoyed waking to the fresh bright landscape. Each morning he wondered whether today was the day he would regain his fortune, and he woke with grand ideas of how to earn it. He built fantastic designs in his head, only to have them dashed away by reality at the day's end. Today was no different and Shadrich planned to whittle his time away by encouraging the children to build great snow castles from which they could do battle. Perhaps befriending the friendless young Lord was the way to his regain his fortune. Be rewarded with gold for his loyalty and bravery.

Despite being an adult grown, Ser Shadrich was short in stature. Mayhaps that made him appear less ferocious in the eyes of the Lord of the Eyrie, but surprisingly Lord Robert had taken to him immediately. He was thus sure he could convince the child to get outside, breathe some fresh air, and have a nice snow battle. Anything that made the Lord Robert happy was sure to make Lady Alayne and Lord Baelish happy was well, and Ser Shadrich was hired to protect the pair.

Lord Baelish had left early in the morning to once again travel. Ser Shadrich figured that Baelish needed to get his business (whatever it may be) done quickly before they were snowed in for the winter. Yet Shadrich had not been asked by his new Lord to accompany him to Lady Waynwood's estates, which led Shadrich to believe that protecting Lady Alayne was more important than protecting Lord Baelish. He thought that rather interesting. He again found himself asking why a bastard child would be of such importance to need a guard.

Shadrich walked through the vast halls of the West Tower to find Lady Alayne and Lord Robert alone, breaking their fast on porridge and eggs. Ser Shadrich gave a gallant and theatrical bow to each, which caused Lady Alayne to smile and Lord Robert to laugh, and he firmly stated, "My dear Lord Robert, the snow is falling thickly and I fear a good snow battle is in order for the day. Might I be counted upon to fight for my Lord?" Alayne looked nervously at Robert, unsure of his response, but smiled in delight when he agreed. Shadrich was fairly certain it was the first time Robert had agreed to go out, and was proud of his mastery of the child.

Ser Shadrich and Alayne goaded Lord Robert to ask other children to play with them, reminding Robert that it would be an honor for anyone asked by his Lordship. Robert swelled with pride and proceeded to ask half the occupants of the Gates before they all converged in the west courtyard to create their castles with reinforced battlements.

Alayne had initially joined Shadrich and Robert, but her face was downcast as she stared across the courtyard at the growing snow castles. She begged off the game, humbly admitting to Robert that she was not as strong in such weather as his lordship, and asked to watch instead. Ser Shadrich wondered at the shadows that flashed across her face as she left to seat herself upon a bench.

Shadrich and Robert soon forgot Alayne as their snow castle of the Eyrie was completed and they began building their snowballs instead. Someone shouted and the battle began. Their wall was tall, their defenses good. Most snowballs bounced harmlessly off their wall. Yet they had to peek their heads around the wall to throw their own snowballs, and soon Shadrich and Robert's hair was streaked with white, they were panting heavily, and Robert was giggling uncontrollably.

Too soon their snowballs were exhausted and Shadrich suggested they leave their defenses behind and rush to break their enemy's walls. Robert, however, refused and stubbornly stood behind their wall of snow. He insisted that it was impregnable and there was no reason to leave their cover.

Ser Shadrich was flabbergasted. No wonder the Vale had managed to stay out of the War of the Five Kings. The boy leader was a coward. He wouldn't even advance in a fake snow battle. Did the whole Vale think like this? He chance glanced back at Lady Alayne, who was now seated with Maester Colemon. She was sipping from a cup of hot mulled wine, her cheeks rosy and red. Maester Colemon's cheeks were red, too, but from anger. Shadrich tried to listen over the shouts and screaming of the battlefield, but he couldn't hear the reason behind Colemon's anger.

Shadrich turned back to Lord Robert and saw that their snow wall had been breached and the enemy upon them. He began scooping up snow to dump on their heads when he heard Lord Robert screech, "You can't break the wall! This is the Eyrie and it is impregnable!" His lower lip trembled. Was the child going to cry? "You cheated!" Shadrich was at a loss for words. Fortunately, Alayne had heard, abandoned her mug of wine, and was now holding Robert's hand, talking softly. He continued to pout, and Maester Colemon raised his hand and announced that it was time for everyone to go inside, lest his lordship catch an illness.

Shadrich shrugged and dropped his armload of snow harmlessly upon the ground. Alayne quickly whisked Robert away and the party slowly dispersed. Shadrich was confused. He had always known Robert was slightly sickly, but cowardly as well? He thought he, and all the other revelers, had seen a sight they weren't supposed to see. No wonder Baelish kept the child under lock and key. He was an embarrassment and made the Vale appear vulnerable.

Robert did not reappear for the rest of the day, and Alayne told him he was overheated from the game and resting.

Bored, Ser Shadrich decided he would once again try his hand at reading. He had never formally learned. On rare occasions he had, in his service as a knight, met with friendly maesters that would teach him a few words here and there. Unfortunately most thought it pointless to help him. He pulled out his well-worn book and studied the letters once again. He had memorized their shape and sounds, and practiced them a few times before going to the library to hunt for a book with a few words he could try to read.

He encountered Alayne in the library, seated in a comfortable chair with a thin volume in her hands. She looked deep in thought, and was startled and dropped the book when she heard the door open. He backed out of the library, apologizing. He wasn't sure whether Lord Baelish or Lord Nestor would approve of his borrowing of a book.

Alayne crawled down from her chair to fetch the book and called Shadrich back to inquired after his actions. Blushing, Ser Shadrich admitted his purpose. Alayne blinked a few times and then politely offered to help. She suggested the book she held in her hands, stating, "It is a book of songs. Mayhaps it will help you learn the words because you will already know the lyrics. Look it over. I will help you with the words you don't know." She placed the book in his hand and slipped out of the library before he could protest.

He slid it in his jacket pocket and left the library.

Shadrich found a chair and table not too far from Robert and Alayne's rooms, as he was supposed to be guarding them, and opened the book. It was well worn and creased and flipped opened to a page that must have been read frequently by Alayne. He firmly turned the book back to the first page without looking at the well-read title of Alayne's favorite song. The girl deserved some secrets, and he didn't want to embarrass her by asking questions about that one first.

The day slipped by as he concentrated on the little songbook.

The next day passed as quickly as the previous, and then a third was gone before he knew it. In fact he spent the majority of each day sitting in the same chair, because Lord Robert had locked himself in his room four days past, after Maester Colemon had announced he needed to go in doors after the snow battle.

Shadrich struggled with the book, but, embarrassed, never asked Alayne for help with the words. Alayne herself seemed too busy entertaining the cross boy and never took the time to inquire after Shadrich's studies.

After days of studying Shadrich's eyes hurt and he allowed himself instead to once again think about how he'd earn his riches. Today he thought back to his quest to find Sansa Stark.

He prided himself on his ability to understand a person's character, to look for clues. Sure he wanted gold for finding Sansa Stark, but he also desired to solve the mystery of how a female hostage could escape from the middle of King's Landing after apparently poisoning the king.

Shadrich's backside grew tired and he stood and leaned against the wall, bored, with his mind adrift. He had not progressed on finding Sansa Stark and was starting to worry. Three feet of snow had already fallen and even if he found the girl, he had no idea how he'd get her all the way to King's Landing to collect the promised gold. The autumn storms had been wild, and the seasickness from his last trip was never far from his mind. It probably wasn't even worth the gold. Rumor had it that Varys, the man who would pay the gold, went missing at the same time Tyrion Lannister disappeared. Perhaps he should just continue to pocket his gold from Baelish and forget the girl completely.

Shadrich was startled when Lord Robert finally emerged from his fit and left his suite for the first time in four days. Alayne Stone worked miracles with that boy, and looked incredibly relieved to have finally gotten him out of the room. She smiled to Shadrich and politely inquired how his day had been before taking Lord Robert out and parading him around for all to see. Shadrich had ascertained during the past few days that the boy was not healthy, and could tell Baelish was trying to prevent the Vale from finding out. If Shadrich managed to discover this in just a few days, he doubted the Royces or Lord Declarants were unaware of the situation.

Eventually one or the other of the pair tired of their charade and made their way back to lord Robert's suite of rooms. As they passed Shadrich, he heard Lord Robert request a game. Alayne clapped her hands together and muttered some nonsense of, "Oh what fun! What shall we play?" and did a very convincing job that the cowardly Lord Robert's thoughts and ideas were the most important thing in the Vale. Which they were, Ser Shadrich reminded himself crossly. This ill-tempered craven of a boy was the future ruler of the Vale and it was necessary to remember that.

So when Alayne flirtatiously curtseyed and begged, "Ser Shadrich, please do Lord Robert and I the honor of joining us in a game of Knight and Villains," he graciously accepted. He was bored, anyway, and this was his chance to stay on the good side of the young lord. Although he wasn't sure, given the outcome of their last game, whether or not this was a good idea. Regardless, Lady Alayne and Lord Robert spent the next few moments cajoling a few others left to guard Lord Baelish's West Tower to play as well. Soon they established ground rules, found stick-swords and spread out to play.

Lord Robert, of course, was selected as the knight and covered his eyes and counted to seventy-seven as the dutiful villains ran to find their lair in the West Tower. Ser Shadrich could see Lord Robert peeking through his fingers as he counted the numbers as quickly as possible.

Shadrich ran the fastest, despite being the smallest, and led the rest of the villains to a third-level storage space. Oswell Kettleblack had recently purchased and returned with a wealth of goods from the ship _Merling King_, which was still anchored in Gulltown. Kettleblack had brought them to this space for Lord Baelish, and Baelish had appeared overly grateful for a few barrels of wine and a crate with strange foreign words scrawled upon it, Ser Shadrich had thought. When Baelish noticed him staring, he had winked and said the crate was a secret present for Alayne's name day. Regardless, the room was the perfect place for a sword fight. It had plenty of barrels to fight around and Lord Robert would certainly appreciate that. He and the other villains ducked behind barrels and stacks of rushes and waited in half-darkness. Lady Alayne hid beside him, her blue eyes shining and her checks flushed red from running, her swordstick held like a sewing needle.

"Do you even know how to use that sword, my Lady Villain?" Shadrich asked, teasing.

She laughed and japed sweetly back, "Of course not. That is why my father hired you," as she allowed him to show her the proper way to hold a sword. She seemed so happy to play a game now. Why had she been so reluctant to play with the snow castles?

"Should we look for torches? It is quite dark," muttered Ser Morgarth as the minutes past. "Perhaps he will not see us."

Shadrich decided the dark would hide Robert's obvious lack of skill at the sword and instead, the villains whispered loudly of their evil plans, such that the brave knight could overhear them and determine the location of their hide-out. Eventually Lord Robert slammed open the oak door, stick-sword out and ready to parry. Ser Shadrich stifled a laugh. Sure, it was considered cute when a young maiden like Alayne didn't know how to properly hold a sword, but when a boy who was already titled as the Defender of the Vale held his sword wrong it was just a sad and pathetic sight. At least he was fighting now. It was an improvement over the snow battle.

Shadrich and the other villains jumped up from behind the barrels and rushes and thrust their swords toward the knight. "Tis Ser Robert, the feared Knight of the Vale," Shadrich shouted, "Cut him down, villains!" and he began to fight with Robert. Robert's cuts were weak and Shadrich did his very best to make Robert look good. Eventually Shadrich missed and Robert's swordstick sliced Shadrich's left arm. He staggered, pretending to cry in pain, moaning about his lost left arm before dramatically draping his body over a chest of cloth. Dead. Ser Robert turned to face the other villains.

Alayne stepped forward, giggling, but with a determined look on her face. "I'll defend my fallen comrade," she shouted, thrusting her way toward Lord Robert with her swordstick held in the proper position. She fought bravely, but eventually the good knight Ser Robert slew the female villain and she fluttered gracefully to the floor, clutching her chest and screaming for revenge as he continued to stab her.

Burly Ser Morgarth stepped up next for the villains, vowing to avenge the good Lady Villain. Ser Robert the Knight climbed upon a barrel of wine to gain better leverage.

It happened so quickly.

One moment Robert was standing, thrusting his sword toward Morgarth, and the next he was falling backwards, knocking a crate to the hard floor.

Everyone, alive and dead, dropped their twig swords and rushed to Lord Robert. He was slumped askew against an overturned barrel and amidst the crate contents. A dark viscous fluid was slowly spreading beneath him. Alayne screamed, touching Robert's face. He moaned. Thank the gods he moaned!

Alayne murmured, "I'll find Maester Colemon. Ser Morgarth, please find torches or lamps to light this room. Everyone else, please comfort him," before quickly standing and running off, tears pooling in her eyes.

Ser Shadrich was trembling. He couldn't imagine what Littlefinger would do to him if Lord Robert died. Hanging? Probably something worse. He whimpered as the blood kept spreading across the floor. "Lord Robert?" his voice trembled. "Are you awake?" The boy just continued to moan.

Minutes pasted. It felt like hours.

The boy groaned, and soon was crying in earnest, which Shadrich took as a good sign. At least he was able to cry. That meant he was awake. His horror of being hung diminished very slightly.

Then Lord Robert placed his hand down on the floor, upon the dark spreading liquid. "I'm bleeding!" he screamed, sitting up abruptly. "I'm dying!" he started to panic, breathing shallowly and flailing his arms.

Ser Morgarth arrived with a lamp and quickly lit the torches by the door. He brought the light closer to Lord Robert. He was in a pool, for sure, but it was brown, not red. Ser Shadrich looked more closely, ducking to miss being hit by one of Robert's swinging arms. It was a thick, brown liquid. He dipped a finger in and brought it to his tongue. "It isn't blood," he announced in a perplexed voice.

Ser Morgarth grasped the child firmly, looked into his face, and announced, "You aren't dying. It isn't blood." The boy stopped screaming, thank the gods, but his arms continued to shake uncontrollably.

The Mad Mouse continued to investigate the brown fluid. He lifted the lamp to trace the origin. It came from the crate Robert had knocked over. He couldn't read a word on this box and figured it was written in something other than the common tongue. Strange. Even worse, Shadrich was fairly certain that this was the box Baelish had been so grateful to receive from Kettleblack.

At that moment, Alayne and Maester Colemon rushed into the room, followed by Lothor Brune, and the three headed towards Robert. By now, Robert was sitting up, shaking, but fine. Maester Colemon poked and prodded and did whatever Maesters do, but Shadrich was watching Alayne. She had stopped and touched the dark puddle. A look of horror crossed her face, and she exchanged a quick glance with Brune. Interesting, the Mad Mouse though.

Shadrich quickly assured her it was not blood, but it was obvious from her unchanging expression that she already knew. Why on earth would runny brown water cause her such strife?

The look remained for a split second longer before she murmured something incomprehensible and turned to Maester Colemon to stammer, "Can we move him back to his bed?" She made sure the hedge knights helped carry the boy back and left Lothor Brune to clean up the spill.

When Shadrich went back to investigate, he found that the room had been bolted shut. What was so important about that brown liquid?


	7. The Novice

**A/N: Characters belong to GRRM**

**Chapter 7: The Novice Brother**

The novice brother softly stroked Driftwood's head. The black horse was temperamental, but the soothing hand of the novice soon calmed the destrier. He carefully saddled the horse whilst favoring his good leg. He struggled to mount Driftwood, but once upon her he felt different; he felt whole. Here, upon the brotherhood's horse, he wasn't a washed up man with a lame leg. He felt like a warrior who could ride swiftly and cut down any enemy in his path. It was a dangerous way to feel.

It scared the novice to think like that. He was happy in his monotonous life. He had food, shelter, and comrades. It was a quiet life, but he had grown used to the silence. Here, galloping atop the horse, his hood would fly off his head and hug his back and he could hear the wind rushing past his one ear. He felt…alive. But feeling alive was the very way he had nearly died. It was far safer to rest his weary mind and body in the quiet than to feel alive and all the other emotions and sensations that went along with being alive.

Somewhat reluctantly he slowed Driftwood to a steady trot. The wind calmed and his world was once again quiet. Better to be safe and emotionally dead than to feel alive and hurt inside.

He had slowly been accepted here on the Quiet Isle, and with his acceptance he gained new responsibilities. Today he was leaving the island for the first time, to distribute foods to the less fortunate and to look upon the banks of the Trident and see what useful things or unfortunate beings had washed ashore.

He and three other brothers slowly followed the Elder Brother's sure-footed palfrey as it snaked its way through the waters. It was a confusing path, turning north and then west then south and east. The novice was sure he wouldn't have been able to do it on his own. He patted Driftwood's neck in thanks as they slowly crossed the still water.

Eventually they reached the shore and trotted their way along the river. The war was mostly over and people were focused on preparing for the winter. As such, they hoped to no longer see bodies washed upon the shore. They found that a light snow had fallen on this side of the shore, dusting the reeds and shrubs in a bright white powder.

The novice brother slowly fell behind his group as he gazed at his surroundings. He moved further inland as Driftwood whinnied and moved his head to the ground. Driftwood's nostrils flared and it was then that the novice brother noticed the shivering man.

The novice slowly and carefully dismounted. He knew, logically, that many bodies washed ashore here where the rivers met. But to actually find a person was a shock. He gratefully thought back to his own rescue and hoped he could help this man as well.

The man was thin and shivering from the weather, but otherwise looked healthy. When he opened his eyes he squinted up at the novice and begged for a blanket. The novice was uncertain whether he should speak to answer the man. He had taken a vow of silence. As the Hound, he would have scoffed at the vow and made a crude comment. But his fear of being rejected and alone in the winter stopped him. He had told the Elder Brother the Hound was dead, and even if he wasn't certain the Hound was fully dead, he would do his best. Certainly no one else cared whether the Hound still lived, so why should he? He remained silent and removed a blanket from Driftwood's pack.

How he wished his leg would be healthy again. The man was older, perhaps sixty, with a lined face but otherwise appeared strong. Before his injury, the novice may have been able to pick him up and toss him upon the back of Driftwood, but he knew he was in no condition to do so now.

The novice bent down and did his best to assist the man in standing. Once up, the man looked at the novice and voiced his thanks.

"Seven hells," involuntarily shot out of the novice's mouth and he turned to spit, as though he could erase his mistake with the action. The man had her eyes. Beautiful blue eyes. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone, to forget about his follies, his stupid knife to the child's throat, the stolen song. The Imp between her legs…He still wasn't sure if he believed in the seven gods, but they sure seemed to be taunting him now.

The man turned his head at the curse, but just muttered a jape that the novice ignored. He was grateful for the woolen scarf that covered his jaw and forehead. He didn't know this man, and he was damned sure he didn't want to.

He looked at the man, full of contempt, and jumped on his horse. The man looked confused as he rode away in search of the Elder Brother. He may have found the man, but he didn't need to stick around and rescue him. That was the Elder Brother's preferred activity. Let him deal with those blue eyes.


	8. Alayne II

**A/N: The characters all belong to GRRM.**

**Thanks for all of the reviews! It is incredibly encouraging to get them! Good or bad, I love to hear them! To clarify on the 'novice' vs. 'postulant' issue- I'm trusting Brother Narbert, who calls him a novice in the Brienne chapter on the Quiet Isle. **

**Chapter 8: Alayne II  
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Alayne Stone paced about nervously in her quarters. Five long days had elapsed since Robert Arryn had knocked her crate of hair dye to the floor and she had been waiting anxiously for her father's return ever since.

She tried to occupy her time by practicing sums; it was the one thing she struggled with, and any child of Petyr Baelish should excel in numbers. It was said he could make gold dragons multiply simply by rubbing them together. She just hoped she could add them up correctly. She had done pretty well whilst in the Eyrie, as there was not much else to occupy her time, but her skills had slipped once she was living in the West Tower at the Gates of the Moon. She had friends and feasts to attend to and much less time for practicing her bookkeeping skills.

Still, for the past few days she had done well, and Maester Colemon had told her that any family should be proud to have a daughter as intelligent as herself. She had blushed prettily at those words; not long ago Joffrey daily remarked that she was stupid. She wasn't entirely ready to believe Maester Colemon, but it felt good to hear.

Her mood had varied dramatically daily during the five days she had waited for her father's return. She had violently declared that first day as the worst day of Alayne's life and spent the night crying in bed, clutching the one remaining bottle of chestnut brown dye.

The next day she had been optimistic. After all, it had only been a moon's turn ago when she had asked her father for more dye, and he had produced it within a few weeks. If he could make dragons from air, then he could certainly produce another small crate of hair dye.

That day, the optimistic day, she had spent in the stables. Robert had exhibited the most peculiar behavior after his fall and she was ready to take full advantage of it. It had started that morning, when Robert came into her room to wake her. That was odd enough; the boy usually slept late, but the rest of his behavior was truly strange. He ran across the room, opened the curtains, and said 'good morning' in the most cheerful of voices. Due to his mishap the day before, she had assumed, like any other time, he would be cross and upset for several days following the fall. But instead a boy eager to start his day had awakened her. He shook her shoulders, demanding she get out of bed to break their fast. This was bizarre, but she was no stranger to taking orders and politely acquiesced to his request.

She climbed out of the bed and had gently questioned him, "Sweetrobin, you seem quite happy this morning. May I ask the occasion for it?"

The young Lord of the Eyrie had merely pointed to his left elbow. Alayne looked at it closely. There was a small cut, probably from when he had fallen off of the barrel the day before. "Does it hurt?" she had cooed. "Do you want me to kiss it and make it better?"

But Robert simply pulled his arm away and laughed. "It is my first battle scar! I was a valiant knight yesterday and this is the proof!" Alayne's mouth had dropped open in shock. Never had she heard nor seen Robert behave in this manner. Previously he would have cried and thrown his nightsoil at the first person who walked in the room. She closed her mouth and smiled. "Good Ser Robert! How should we celebrate this glorious day?"

Robert smiled and told her it was time the knight learned how to ride a horse. Robin's good mood lasted the entire day and though he was miserably clumsy on his horse, he had tried and not quit. They had dined with Mya Stone, whom he frequently despised due to her mule smell, and he proudly pointed out his battle wound. She admired it and proclaimed him a hero and even offered to take him riding the next day.

But once abed with nothing to distract her Alayne had tossed and turned for half the restless night. Morning arrived all too quickly and on the third day of her wait she had felt guilt. Her father had done so much for her. He had rescued her from a marriage with Tyrion, which at some point he certainly would have consummated. Rescued her from Cersei, who would have had her killed. And he had asked for nothing in return. How did she thank him for these great favors? By losing her hair dye and spoiling his wonderful plans to keep her hidden and safe.

That day she had carefully bolted her door and studied her reflection in the small silver mirror. Alayne leaned closer to study her roots. The red was just starting to peek through. At least it was winter, she had thought to herself. She could wear hoods. Beautiful gabled hoods to cover her hair. She laughed at the last thought. They were incredibly unfashionable, at least in the summer. She hoped they would be seen as a more stylish wear during the winter. Regardless, she'd have to wear one even if she did look slightly silly. She had been raised by Septas and a modest look shouldn't be too out of place for Alayne Stone. She had dug through the clothing she had taken with her and found a simple hood to pin to her hair. She figured she might as well get used to wearing it. It had looked terrible upon her head. It had once been Lysa Arryn's and did not at all appear comely upon Alayne's tresses. She removed it crossly, exclaiming that Harry would never marry such an unfashionably ugly looking girl. Maybe she could convince her father to purchase her some more fashionable hats and hair ornaments.

She had called for a bath and stiffened as she further explored her conundrums. What would she do when her true color started to show? Should she dismiss Gretchel and bath and dress herself? Wouldn't that be suspicious?

She found no immediate solutions to those questions and the fourth day's dominant emotion was exasperation, anxious for her father to return. She was cross and short of temper with both Robin and Maester Colemon. She didn't mean to be, but she needed to know everything would be all right, despite her mishap, and she could wait no longer to hear what plans her father would change, alter, to fix her mistake.

The fourth night she once again shared a bed with Myranda. Oh, how she wished her father would arrive home. She spent the day fretting, and even dining alone with Myranda and her titillating stories couldn't keep her mind off of the problem. She had begrudgingly accepted the bedmate offer, not wanting to appear discourteous after all that Myranda had done to make Alayne feel welcome at the Gates of the Moon. She had even offered to read to Robert, a task not nearly as easy as it sounded.

Alayne was both relieved and suspicious by Myranda's behavior. She still had not determined why Myranda was so friendly. Was it simply because she was indeed a friend? Or was there something else on Myranda's mind? Alayne could not forget that Myranda had voluntarily made the harrowing descent down the Eyrie with her. She couldn't help but think it was to judge her. She wished she could just have a true friend without all the questions of trust that were associated with it. But that fairytale had died with Sansa.

"My dear Alayne, what are you doing with that boy? He seems like a changed child," Myranda started off once they were safely tucked into the large bed with the drapes closed and the lamps extinguished.

Mya Stone was also a bedmate this evening, and remarked, "He even asked me for riding tips today. I don't think he has ever done such a thing before. He was so happy and determined."

Alayne murmured an agreement, honestly swearing she had no idea from where Robert's newfound energy originated. "I'm guessing it is due to friendship. I was so very lonely up in the Eyrie. Mayhaps Lord Robert felt the same, especially after losing his mother. Now that we are here, surrounded by people, I feel much happier."

Myranda snorted. "You don't sound happy right now. You look tired." She paused. "You _should _be happy, being surrounded by all these people. It sounds as though your childhood was incredibly dull, being brought up by Septas." Alayne imagined Myranda's eyebrows wiggling in the dark as she added, "and down here, all sorts of men are wishing to court you, I know."

That temporarily distracted Alayne from her cross mood and she had brightened, "Really? Who?"

Myranda and Mya giggled and despite Alayne's worries, the rest of the night had passed pleasurably. Before falling asleep Alayne mumbled a little thanks to Myranda for cheering her up. She was a true friend. Maybe she did have other secrets. But that was okay, Alayne had them, too.

Today, the fifth day, she was simply bored, bored of waiting for her father to return. Nothing would change until he came back, so she figured there was no use worrying needlessly. That is, until she received word that her father had returned, which set her to pace about the room as she awaited his call. It was nearing the date Petyr had picked for Alayne's fifteenth name day, and she was a woman grown. She would tell her hair dye story to her father in a polite and firm manner, like an adult, not cry like a child. She would simply inquire what they should do next. She imagined her father proud of her composure, asking her what she thought would be best. Perchance she would even offer a suggestion for the next move of their game and her father would praise her. She practiced her story as she paced. Not much later she received word her father wanted to speak with her and she made her way to his solar, brimming with confidence.

He was seated near the fireplace, sipping wine with Lothor Brune. She boldly stepped into the room. Her braveness deserted her as she looked at Lothor's face and realized her father already knew her mishap. That wasn't at all how she expected to begin her tale. She faltered, and her attempt to be a woman grown failed and Alayne Stone started to wail as she realized how she had let her father down. She was embarrassed to cry in front of Brune, but she couldn't help it. She stopped in the middle of the room as tears streamed down her face. "I'm so, so sorry, father," she managed to say between her sniffles. Lothor quietly excused himself and left.

Petyr Baelish simply stood and hugged her. He rubbed her back and whispered that everything would be okay. Alayne continued to sniffle, but eventually her tears ran dry and she allowed her father to push her back into Lothor's empty chair. He kissed her forehead tenderly and poured her a glass of a vintage Arbor. She tried to drink, but her arms trembled and she set the glass on the table. Her father continued to patiently stroke her hair until she calmed.

"Sweetling, it sounds as though you have had a difficult time since I've been away." A fresh wave of anguish erupted from Alayne and Petyr waited until it abated, sitting in the chair next to her, tenderly rubbing her hand.

It was so comforting to share her troubles with him. She hated to feel alone, and, though she knew Lord Baelish, as Littlefinger, could be cunning and vicious, at moments such as this, she loved Petyr as a father. He was kind and patient in listening to her woes.

When she felt it safe to grasp the glass, Alayne took a sip of her wine and looked at her father. His eyes were twinkling with amusement and she breathed a sigh of relief. No punishment. And no inappropriate kiss. He did care for her and her feelings.

"Don't worry, Alayne, we will figure something out. Let me tell you some good news instead. I think you could do with a bit of good news! Ser Harrold has taken it upon his so recently-knighted self to clear out the last of the mountain clans before winter firmly settles upon us. He will be leading one of the sorties that will be stationed at the Bloody Gate. I believe he will be stationed there throughout the early winter."

"Oh father that is wonderful! We should be able to access the gate for most of winter, correct? So I can meet him frequently to win him over," Alayne bubbled, overly grateful for a change of subject.

Petyr smiled cautiously, but warned her, "Not too frequently unless we can keep your beautiful tresses brown instead of auburn."

Her face clouded momentarily, but this is where nearly-fifteen-Alayne had planned for the conversation to go. Show that she was a player, not a disposable piece in the game. "I, I was thinking," Alayne began, trying to regain her maturity despite her earlier outburst, "perhaps to solve the problem of the hair dye I should wed Ser Harrold sooner. I know you wanted to wait until Tyrion died, but mayhaps I could have an annulment instead. I am still a maiden." She looked eagerly at Petyr, afraid to be called stupid.

Petyr looked sad. "My dearest daughter, I don't wish for you to leave me, but that isn't why I wanted to wait for his death rather than an annulment. Can you think of why, perhaps, a death is better than an annulment?"

This was an unexpected question and her heart fluttered as she searched her mind for an answer. "An annulment. That would be as if it had never happened. I was never a Lannister, and I am still a maiden Stark. What does it matter if he died and I'm still a maiden? I never produced an heir." She was disappointed with herself. "No father, please explain to me why it matters."

Petyr leaned forward and gently held her hands in his own. "Power, my sweet daughter, power. Never give it up if it is in your hands." He looked into her eyes as he sipped his Arbor Gold. "My dear, because Jaime Lannister is a member of the Kingsguard, he has forfeited his right to inherit Casterly Rock. Tyrion, despite being a kinslayer, is the rightful heir, and there is a very small chance the Tyrell-heavy council will allow that to continue. I rather doubt that, but I do have some influence with them," he smirked. He spoke slowly, emphasizing each word of his next sentence. "You have been missing, in hiding, for almost half a year. Perhaps not because you feared your death, but because you fear the death of your son, the heir to Casterly Rock." His eyes gleamed in the firelight as he stared into her eyes.

"But, I don't…I.. I am a maiden! We have no son! We never shared a bed," she faltered, as she realized her father's plans. "Father, that is…it is wrong," she cried, desperately wishing the conversation had never started.

"Sweetling, that is why you cannot marry Ser Harrold nor show your identity for at least another few years. Five years from now, after you are safely wedded and bedded by Harry, if you tell people you came to a nearly empty Eyrie, already a month pregnant, delivered a bit early, and sent your son to live somewhere safe away from the war, people aren't going to remember that there wasn't enough time for you to deliver a child. People forget, and in five or ten years a missing three months or so won't matter either way. We can produce a child, if needed, when the time comes. Servants' words can easily be bought with gold. But isn't it better to still have the power of that option? Get an annulment and you lose that future possibility. Wouldn't you like to be the mistress of three great houses rather than two?"

"No," she said desperately, withdrawing her hands from his and standing. "No, I do not want to take some poor son from his mother to raise him as a lion. I know what it is like to be separated from family, and I won't do it. Not for anything. Two castles are plenty. I don't want to lie for a third."

Petyr simply sat back in his chair, amused. He took the time to sip his wine before answering. "My dearest _daughter_, you lie everyday." He paused. "I thought you were ready to be a player in game of thrones. But if you still want to be a piece, go right ahead. It matters not. I doubt the throne would allow Casterly Rock to pass to the son of a kinslayer, anyway." He took the time to fully swallow his next sip and look her directly her Tully eyes. "I am disappointed in you."

Alayne stared back, chagrined, hurt that she had failed him. What _did_ she want? To please him?

"Everything I do is for you, my sweetling. I came from nothing. I want my daughter to have everything." He continued to stare at her for a minute before sighing and saying, "I see that you are upset. We'll continue another day. You are dismissed, my dear."

Alayne backed out of the room slowly, her fists twisting her gown to knots. Once the door shut behind her she ran to her room like a child, too overwhelmed to even have the sweet release of tears.

She had betrayed her first father to Cersei; was she destined to betray this one as well?

She nervously kneaded her feather pillow as she heard his words repeated in her head. _I am disappointed in you. I am disappointed in you. I am disappointed in you. I am disappointed in you._ She buried her head into the pillow and screamed.

She remembered all to well what happened when she, or like as not, Robb, disappointed Joffrey. Remembering Petyr's elicit kisses, Sansa feared she would find Littlefinger's disappointment much more difficult to bear.

She remembered the Hound gently handing her a cloth to blot her bloodied lip. Advising her to close her mouth and just do whatever Joffrey wanted because he would get it in the end, anyway.

She had no Hound here. No one to whisper a gentle encouragement that she could endure it. She had no Florian to plan her escape should she continue to disappoint Littlefinger. She was alone. The tears finally burst forth from her eyes until her pillow was wet with fear.


	9. The Novice II

**A/N: All characters belong to GRRM.**

**Chapter 9: The Novice II **

The novice slowly rubbed soap into his hands. He fastidiously picked under each fingernail, targeting the dirt embedded deep beneath his short nails. Once clean, he knew he could delay dinner no longer and poured cold water over his hands to rinse the soap away. It was done too soon and he glanced at his simple cane.

Some days he accepted his fate; he would be a brother here on the Quiet Isle for the rest of his life. On those days, he hobbled about with the aid of his wooden cane. His mental commentary consisted of compliments to the chef for the warm bread and butter, or amusing comments to the brothers' silent behavior. Gratitude for acceptance and shelter. He would go to bed exhausted from a day of hard labor, and fervently wish he could believe as the brothers did; that the gods existed and had a plan for him.

Other days were more difficult, and he carried a spark of resentment at his self-banishment. On those days his mind developed never-spoken insults at the piety of his brothers. Their sure belief that the gods' plans included such destruction and death that Westeros had experienced in the past years. Or that a little boy could be burned by his brother. Or that a little sister could be so easily killed by her monstrous sibling. Or that a young girl could be forced to watch her father's head be separated from his body by his own sword and then marry the uncle of the man who ordered it. On those days he preferred to stubbornly limp about the isle without the help of his cane. He would lie on his straw mattress for hours, fighting sleep, wishing he could erase his memories. He never could.

Instead his mind dwelled on ifs.

If only he had been older when his sister confided to him that their brother was abusing her. He shouldn't have been surprised; Gregor had abused him for years, why should he have thought a weak girl should escape the torment? Had he been older, better trained with the sword, perhaps he could have saved her. Instead, he fought, lost, and ran off, tail tucked between his legs to the safety of the Clegane masters, the Lannisters.

He hadn't even been a loyal dog. How could he be, when he knew nothing and no one was sacred and immune to abuse by the people in power? He had always managed to feign indifference with a crude jape when a Lannister did something cruel. It was, as he had told the little bird, just the way the world worked. The weak were simply toys for the powerful. So he made sure he was stronger than most.

He hated thinking about the little bird. She had become his paragon of the pain he suffered. She was just a pretty little girl highborn girl, taught to chirp her polite words. So like his sister in shyness. And in return for behaving exactly as society dictated, she had to suffer needlessly. Just like his poor little sister. When her feathers were ruffled and she fought back verbally it was acceptable for the king's personal guard to hit her and never question it. Just like Gregor and his sister.

Yet watching it replay a second time, as a grown adult, he still didn't act as he should have. Mayhaps a child hound couldn't defeat a grown mountain, but an adult hound certainly could have defeated a lion cub. But he hadn't. Sure, he may have whispered words of encouragement to the little bird, did his best to scare some sense into her, but he did nothing to stop the abuse. He ran instead.

She had been such a pretty child. Over half a year has passed since he saw her last; she had probably blossomed into a beautiful young woman. A blossom plucked, used, and disposed of, like as not. She had disappeared months ago. He doubted she had the resources or friends to be saved. She certainly couldn't wield a sword like her little she-wolf sibling. She was most likely dead. He didn't save her anymore than he had saved his own sister. She was probably better off dead, anyway. It seemed as though there was nothing but pain in this world. He wondered how long that wench with the Imp's squire would fruitlessly hunt for her before giving her up for dead.

On nights like that, where he relived his worst moments, he avoided closing his eyes. He was fearful his dreams would be of fire. The jade-colored wildfire, the bright hot sword of Dondarrion, his face in the brazier. On nights like that he wished he had died saving someone of worth rather than being an exile on a small island.

Yet the nights always passed, and day inevitably brought a new reason to live: a horse to train, a hole to dig, foods to harvest, anything to occupy his time. And during his time on the island the days full of nightmares diminished. Initially they had consumed his weeks. Then one day he realized he hadn't thought of his personal failures at all the day before. Relief he was forgetting was quickly replaced with fear and disgust he was forgetting. But gradually he healed, and soon a single day of reprise was replaced by two in a row. Slowly the numbers of days filled with nightmares were outnumbered by more peaceful days. Slowly the normal became not the horror-filled days, but the days where he wasn't thinking of his past. Mayhaps he had a chance for happiness after all.

Today he had been in one of his anxious moods. It was the first in several days, and he knew the cause. Those blue eyes on the man he found by the Trident earlier in the morning. He had left him and signaled the Elder Brother to go back and help. At times such as that, where he could have said in words what was needed to be done, yet instead he had been forced to whistle and wave his arms to make the Elder Brother understand, his brotherhood seemed to border on ridiculous. Would it really ruin his piety to have said it in words rather than arm signals?

Those blue eyes started his downward slide, but the obnoxiousness of not talking sealed it. If they are so close to the gods the gods should have just dumped him in the river so the Elder Brother could see him without the handwaving. Just more evidence their gods were cruel and made an otherwise intelligent man look silly. Yet he still wished he could fully believe… he'd be happier then.

Sighing, the novice slowly dried his hands on a simple cloth and left the cloisters to limp his way to dinner. He guessed the blue-eyed man would be a guest tonight, and it put him on edge, reminded him of memories he'd rather forget.

He arrived late to the common hall in the septry and waited silently until the prayer finished. He then walked across the room to slide onto the end of a bench at the third trestle table, making certain he faced the wall and not the table where guests commonly were placed. A young novice filled his cup with mead and he drank deeply to settle his stomach. He focused on his food, ignoring the melody of the harp, and enjoyed his fish the best he could. Brother Narbert started reading from the Warrior's Book in _The Seven-Pointed Star_ and he knew it was his cue to begin working. He sighed and wrapped his length of wool back around his lower face.

This was his week to clear supper and he rose reluctantly to begin his task. It was always difficult to stand from the bench and the brothers graciously left the end of the long wooden bench empty for him, so that he would have a less difficult time rising. Either that, or they feared him, but he doubted brothers would fear one who hobbled such as he.

He shuffled to the kitchen for the large wooden basin used to clear the tables. Once retrieved, he returned to the hall to collect dishes. Much to his anger, the other novices had already taken the common tables and left the novice to clear the table occupied by the Elder Brother and his blue-eyed guest. He paused, but slowly made his way to clear their table. The readings were just finishing and as Brother Narbert's voice quieted, he inadvertently overheard parts of the Elder Brother's and the blue-eyed man's conversation.

"Littlefinger held the Vale for months. I don't know whether to trust him. I liked him enough as a child, he was bright, but I never learned why Hoster had him banished. We never much interacted whilst I was at the Bloody Gate and he was in charge of customs at Gulltown. Yet I know he held Lysa dear, and I did leave my brother to serve her. Perchance he will help."

The novice couldn't help himself; his hand paused above an empty bread dish as he stopped to listen. He didn't trust Littlefinger. Hounds can sniff out a lie and that little man was nothing but slick words and overpriced brothels. He had tried one, once, after he had won his purse of gold in the Hand's Tourney, and was disgusted to find the Stark's steward's whelp strutting about common room. He had left without any services and went to a winesink instead. That isn't to say he didn't continue to visit whores. He just made sure to stay clear of any employed by Baelish. He'd wager that man had more webs than Varys.

Whilst in King's Landing, Littlefinger had told anyone who was unfortunate enough to be listening that he had bedded both Tully girls. Well, certainly he had never deigned to tell a Clegane, but nonetheless he had still heard the rumor. If he had started those rumors early enough, the novice had a pretty good idea why he was removed from the Tully household. A mockingbird was the perfect sigil for the man who pretended to be a lord.

The Elder Brother slowly shook his head and said, "I know little of Lord Baelish, only that it was said the Lord Declarants of the Vale wished to remove him from his position as Lord Protector. He is our new Lord Paramount of the Riverlands but has not offered as much as a raven in recognition to our little isle." The Elder Brother chance looked up at that moment and the novice realized he had been caught eavesdropping. He quickly removed their remaining dishes, refusing to make eye contact with the Elder Brother, and limped back to the kitchen.

The other novices had already arrived, as they had not been wasting time stealing snippets of others' conversations. One of the young novices with two good legs had started boiling water to clean the plates and handed him a jug of hot water to rinse the dishes. As he methodically wiped the plates with soap and a strip of cotton, his mind drifted to the conversation he had overheard.

His education as a child had been wanting; it was hard to study when you had an older brother who would knock you unconscious if you answered a question correctly. For as long as he could remember, his childhood dream had to be a knight, and he dedicated most of his waking hours to sword play rather than learning the family crests and mottos of Westeros. Of course, that dream had died when he discovered that knights didn't actually protect the weak and instead attacked them.

Regardless, he had heard enough to determine this man must be the Blackfish, Brynden Tully. No wonder he recognized those blue eyes. It looked like the Lannisters were still screwing things up; he had heard Jamie Lannister had ended the siege at Riverrun, but clearly a fish or two had slipped away downriver. The crown may want them both, but he doubted that would warm the Blackfish to his own dark identity.

The novice felt the chafed by his inability to talk. The Hound would have had a witty comment on hand and made Tully laugh if questioned about Littlefinger. Instead, the novice had bowed his head and left. How could he prove he didn't rape the Saltpans if he couldn't even speak to his own defense? It doesn't matter, he reminded himself. Everyone I care for is gone, and I'm staying here for the rest of my life and the Hound is dead, anyway. If only he could fully believe that.

He finished washing the dishes and retired to the cloisters to sleep. He lowered his body onto his straw mattress and settled himself in for a long night of nightmares.

The next morning he felt frustrated. He had thought he was healing, forgetting his past and accepting his new way of life. Yet yesterday, despite being a fairly insignificant day, somehow was a turning point and he knew he would never be able to fully accept the brotherhood's way of life. Hounds bark and run and he was muzzled and chained to an island. He couldn't be happy here.

He was in no way planning to tell this to the Elder Brother; just because he realized he wasn't destined to be a brother didn't mean he wasn't going to fight his intuition and try his best to assimilate. Winter was coming, after all, and he needed to be better prepared than the unfortunate Starks if he wanted to survive it. Dogs can adjust to anything. He could certainly stand to stay silent for a few years if that is what is required to pass the winter.

**A/N: This is fairly boring, but I imagine that life on the Quiet Island is fairly boring… so I guess that is appropriate. **


	10. The Mad Mouse III

**A/N: All of the characters belong to GRRM.**

**Chapter 10: The Mad Mouse III**

The Gates of the Moon had been a relatively quiet place since Baelish's return a few weeks previously. Alayne had been quite distracted during his absence, and he wondered if the girl had missed her father. Robert, on the other hand, had exhibited behavior never before seen in the young lord. He had played games, and had half the castle taking turns teaching him how to properly ride a horse. Ser Shadrich himself had started to teach Robert swordplay, at least until proper arrangements could be made with the master-at-arms.

Baelish's return, however, had brought about a subtle change. Shadrich thought it obvious Alayne was more withdrawn and meek. She had previously been quite skilled at courtly flirting and feasting, but now spent the majority of her time with Maester Colemon. You would think the girl wanted to be a maester for as much work she now put into her studies. Initially Ser Shadrich had not noticed Alayne's slight withdrawal from society because Robert had started to shine. Mayhaps it was misplaced, but Shadrich felt he was very much responsible for Robert's newfound energy, due to his desire to get Robert out of his room and playing games, and Shadrich took pride that the boy was doing so well.

Except, Shadrich thought, the boy was not doing quite as well as he had previously been. He didn't believe anyone else saw it, but the boy had a slight grimace to his face each time he mounted the horse. He started to hold back, rather than charge, during their sword fights. He knew the boy had been sick, and did not want to push him too hard, but he felt that, perhaps, the boy's energy had been like a false spring; short and excited everyone needlessly, just to remind them that hard times are still to come. He didn't voice his opinions out loud, and hoped he was mistaken.

Though the calendar read only two turns of the moon, Shadrich was comfortable in his situation at the Vale and felt as though he had been in his role as a hedge knight of the Lord Protector for years.

He had finally finished reading the book of songs that Alayne had graciously lent him, and he had carefully made note of words with which he needed help. He hadn't wanted to ask her for help as she has been so studious, but today she seemed done with studying and he summoned his courage to ask her.

Shadrich, slightly nervous, approached Alayne, bowed, and humbly asked for a bit of assistance with the words. Alayne blushed and stammered an apology for not asking on his progress sooner. She escorted him to the library where they sat side-by-side and looked at the words.

They progressed just fine until he came to _The Mother's Hymn_. This was a curious song to be preferred by a young maiden, Shadrich had thought, but the worn folds in the book suggested it was her favorite. As far as Shadrich knew, she was untouched by the war and he wondered if she was secretly pining for some lost love.

When Alayne noticed the page she blushed, fumbled, and dropped the book. It fell onto the Myrish-carpeted floor. They both bent to pick it up, but she was quicker. As she leaned down, her head dropped, and his hand, reaching for the book, pressed against the modest hood pinned to her hair. He laughed and apologized, but he had knocked it slightly askew.

When he saw what was beneath the hood he stopped breathing, mid-laugh. He quickly realized his mistake and continued to laugh, apologizing for harming her hat. Sansa Stark looked at him with her bright blue eyes, smiling and brushing off the apology. She placed the book back on the table, adjusted her cap, and continued reading.

Ser Shadrich sat, too startled to listen and finally interrupted her mid-sentence, "My Lady, please excuse me, but I know your father desired my presence at this time." He hurriedly stood, bowed, and left the library.

He walked purposefully to the open gardens to think. It had warmed slightly, and the fallen snow had all but melted. There was now but a fresh scattering of snow upon the frozen grounds.

Sansa Stark had been here all along. So much more made sense. Littlefinger hiring extra guards for his bastard daughter, her highborn speech and manners, and even, "oh," he murmured out loud, remembering the crate full of brown liquid crashing to the floor. "It had been a dye for her hair."

But what should he do now? He resisted the urge to run with her immediately. He knew the south was a mess. From what Littlefinger had told him, Queen Cersei had a monstrous defender who not only proved she was innocent of incest, but was also protecting King Tommen day and night, refusing to let the Tyrell council near the boy. Could he really bring this girl to the south to face that monster?

Sansa Stark was wanted by the crown for poisoning King Joffrey. He tried to imagine that sweet young maiden doing such an act. No, not a maiden. The girl had been married to that disfigured Imp. He must have forced her hand, he couldn't imagine her doing it on her own.

Had Ser Shadrich discovered her identity immediately upon his entrance to the Vale, he knew he would not have hesitated to bring the girl back to Varys in exchange for a bag of gold. But now? Could he really sentence sweet Alayne to death?

She had pleasantly flirted with him, lent him her books. Once she had even taken a short sword-holding lesson from him. She never treated him as though he was beneath her. Once he had figured that was because she was simply a bastard, but she was actually one of the highest born women in the land. No, she was truly a good young woman, and he didn't fancy the idea of seeing her head upon a spike in King's Landing.

He received plenty of gold from Littlefinger. The logical answer would be to stay here, winter in the safety of the Vale and pad his pockets. Littlefinger could hire him to find other people seeking Sansa Stark. He had already come across several in his travels. Mayhaps he could serve as a guard to prevent those people from interacting with the girl.

Yet if Littlefinger was protecting Lady Sansa, how would he feel knowing her secret was revealed? He may simply kill Shadrich. A dead man can't spread tales. It would be the safest of courses for Littlefinger.

Perhaps he would have to flee. Littlefinger had no reason to trust him.

He selected a bench within the garden to think over his options, and was still sitting there an hour later when the sun began to set.

"It is over time we had a little talk, don't you think?" Shadrich jumped as he heard the words whispered roughly into his ear. A grim-faced Lothor Brune stared down at Shadrich as one might peer at a misbehaving puppy. "Get up, Lord Baelish is waiting on you in his solar."

Ser Shadrich was an excellent swordsman, but didn't think a fight here in the garden would do him any good. He had no provisions put away, and fleeing in the winter would be certain death. Even if the battle was short, someone would hear it and raise an alarm and he would be unable to escape with much of a head start.

At the very least, he figured Littlefinger wouldn't dispose of him in his own solar. He stood and followed Brune inside.

He was unworried. He was the Mad Mouse, and mice always had corners and holes in which to hide. He just had to survive this meeting before he found his safe spot. He was not surprised Littlefinger had so quickly realized Shadrich had discovered his secret. The man was well known throughout the kingdoms for his ability to manipulate people. The man kept and discovered secrets as though it was as easy as praying to the gods. Littlefinger tended to have much better results than the gods.

Brune gestured for him to enter the solar. He stepped forward and Brune entered behind him, bolting the door securely. Brune indicated Shadrich should remove his sword belt. He unbuckled it and hung it along the wall. Shadrich noticed that Brune's remained on his waist, his right hand resting lightly on the hilt.

Littlefinger was seated in his usual padded chair, watching Shadrich with an air of indifference. Shadrich decided to follow his lead and calmly indicated to the chair across the table from Baelish, asking, "Might I sit and join you?"

Littlefinger's lips curled to a grin and he said, "Please be my guest. Would you prefer a glass of Dornish Red or an Arbor Gold?"

Shadrich watched as Littlefinger sipped from his own glass of Arbor Gold. A clear, sweet drink. Any poison added would be immediately detected in the Arbor. The sour Dornish Red would mask the color and the taste of a poison. The usual choice in this case was clear.

"A glass of Red, if you would be so good," Shadrich announced, sliding into his seat, ignoring Brune at his back.

He could show no fear. A selection of the Arbor would indicate guilt. It would give Littlefinger control of the situation, which he could not afford if he wished to leave the solar alive.

Littlefinger laughed appreciatively and poured the glass. Shadrich swept it up and drank half the glass immediately. "Shall we get down to business?" he asked pointedly, staring directly at Littlefinger's eyes.

Littlefinger smirked and remarked unctuously, "You seemed to have forgotten your duties today. What caused you to forget your evening guard and instead wallow upon a garden bench today?"

"Mayhaps I was reflecting in the beauty of your maiden daughter. The _stark_ beauty of the snowy garden somehow reminds me of her."

Littlefinger laughed at his boldness and asked, "You truly just discovered her… _beauty_ today? I took you for an intelligent man. I had expected it of you much sooner."

That comment distracted the Mad Mouse. Littlefinger had expected him to discover her identity? He needed to rethink his options; perchance Littlefinger wouldn't kill him after all. "Well, I may be slow, but I do believe I was the first to find it." He paused. "And I would guard it safely at all costs. Such an innocent beauty." He smiled widely. "There must be so many…_suitors_…who wish to take advantage of a maiden such as herself."

"Yes, the only question that remains is whether you are one of them or not."

**A/N: does anyone know for sure the title of the song Sansa sings to the Hound? That was just a guess.**


	11. Alayne III

**A/N: All of the characters belong to GRRM.**

**Chapter 11: Alayne III**

The Vale had its first true blizzard a fortnight previous and everyone at the Gates of the Moon was thoroughly tired of the endless snow. The first storm produced five feet of snow in less than a day and by the end of the week an additional four feet had fallen. Lesser storms had made the Vale appear as a beautiful white wonderland. Alayne had then spent hours gazing at the glistening crystals upon the evergreen tree branches with happiness and wonder. But this storm was destructive. The smaller branches had collapsed under the mighty weight of the blizzard and the landscape looked raw and pained. Alayne despaired at the ugliness of the wreckage. It was said a storm of this magnitude had not happen in living memory, and this was only the beginning of this long winter.

Those who were of common birth and not fortunate enough to live in a sturdy stone castle such as the Gates of the Moon suffered the most. Simple homes made from wood collapsed during the storm. They knew that dozens had died and hundreds more were made homeless. Yet the full extent was impossible to discover. Even those with the best horses could not ride through nine feet of snow. Those that managed to trickle into the Gates via snowshoes and determined mindsets spread the horrors of what had occurred.

As Lord Protector of the Vale it was Baelish's job to see that the unlucky members of the Vale did not suffer from want of their homes. He performed admirably, welcoming each refugee personally and listening to his or her sorry tales. He found space for each family to sleep, in his own West Tower, welcomed them to the common hall for meals, and put them to work clearing the snow. If he worried about extinguishing the Gate's food supply he did not reveal it.

Alayne was in awe at her father's ability. The pair had remained distant since their argument, and she was looking for any opportunity to mend the breach. He may not be her true father, but he had saved her and she knew her survival could very well depend on their relationship. He was often kind and had been training her by teaching her how to play the game of thrones. She was determined to be better prepared for her future than a silly little girl that was beaten on command, and she needed Petyr Baelish's lessons to achieve that.

She had thought that, with the blizzard, they would grow closer once again. There was no place to travel nor hide. Yet her father seemed busier than ever directing the vast number of people inhabiting the Gates and their meals and meetings together had grown less frequent with the snowfall.

The snow offered wonderful insulation against the wind and it was much warmer out than one would guess with nine feet of snow upon the ground. Today Alayne and Myranda Royce were watching children play in the garden as their parents labored to remove snow along the roads. Myranda, as the Mistress of the Gates of the Moon, had personally overseen the process of boarding each refugee and knew most of the children by name. Despite her newfound busyness, Myranda had still found time for her friendship with Alayne.

"Randa? Will we have enough food to survive the winter?" Alayne asked as she watched a pair of girls building a snow maiden.

Myranda looked at her. Alayne knew she was searching for signs of nervousness, to discover whether Alayne was worried or just making conversation. Myranda Royce was very good at discerning emotions others were trying to hide and Alayne found it difficult to be anything but truthful whilst in her presence. Apparently convinced Alayne was not panicking, Myranda voiced her opinion, "The Vale was untouched by the War. If it is a long winter, mayhaps we'll eat less near the end, but we have plenty of food for everyone."

Alayne smiled, relieved, and stood silently next to Myranda, lost in thought.

If the weather continued in its present pattern, she may never have the opportunity to meet Ser Harrold. Despite knowing she could not marry him for years, she still wished to see his face and learn his character. She alternatively imagined him as Joffrey or Loras, and not knowing was making her anxious.

When she had been betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon it had been known throughout the kingdom. Her brief engagement to Willas Tyrell was pleasurable because she had the Tyrell girls to chat with, make grand plans and ideas. She hadn't known of her engagement to Tyrion Lannister until it was too late. She may not miss the first and last of her engagements, but she had enjoyed the company of other girls, future sisters and cousins, during her short engagement to Willas. She desperately wished she could talk to a friend about Harry. Myranda, of course, was the logical choice, but she was too fearful of Baelish's anger if she broke her word promising silence on the matter.

A shout and cry from the children startled Alayne from her thoughts. She and Myranda ran over to stop an unfair snowball fight between a pair of sisters. The littler one was pummeling the elder with the balls and the elder was on the ground screaming. Alayne couldn't help but smile; it reminded her of her own former life.

They quickly pulled the two girls apart and went to work distracting them, asking their ages and favorite flowers and other questions that only a young child would be eager to answer. The two girls quickly forgot their fight and took to holding Alayne's hands and following her around the garden for the rest of the afternoon. Alayne couldn't help but enjoy the children. They were youthful and it did not matter to them who sat on the iron throne so long as they had food in their stomachs. She missed her own innocence.

Alayne dined alone with Lord Robert that evening. Robert's brief bloom as a young boy with energy who desired to learn how to ride a horse and flight with swords had quickly died. He no longer had the energy to do such activities nor did he like to be reminded of the brief period when he had been able to do so. His moods were, in fact, far worse than they had been before his happy period. Even as a young child he recognized what had been in his grasp but was now lost. It made him bitter and angry and poor Alayne was one of the few people still allowed in his presence. He now even rejected Myranda Royce. Her cheerful and adventurous tales were too much for the boy who had lost everything.

Robert could stomach Alayne because she too had lost her mother. Before, he had been childish and asked for simple fairytale stories. Now he asked for endless tale's of Alayne's childhood, how she felt when she lost his mother, looking for any link that showed she was as miserable as he. Maester Colemon explained his behavior simply that he was growing up and saw how happy his life could have been had he been a healthier child. Now that it was lost, he was searching for others in the same situation to commiserate with him.

Alayne was distraught. She had to fabricate her childhood and remember all the facts. In addition, when she first arrived to the Vale she had been studious in learning prayers and books of the seven, but when she was not questioned on her background, she had neglected the learning of the seven's words and tended to read more interesting stories instead. Now, with all of Robert's questions as to her background, she once again found herself reading books of the seven on a nightly basis.

Myranda Royce and Mya Stone found her studies amusing. They could not understand why she had chosen against becoming a septa if she still found the books fascinating. Each time Myranda saw her reading the _Book of the Maiden_, Alayne was certain Myranda was planning ways to further corrupt Alayne's innocence.

At dinner that evening Alayne fabricated a tale for Lord Robert in which she feed the goats of the sisters with whom she was raised. She immediately regretted her choice of tale; she had not the slightest idea how to milk a goat and hoped she would never be called upon to prove her story. He had been desirous of a pet, so Alayne made certain to tell him goats were not the preferred choice, despite the abundance of milks and cheeses they would produce. Mayhaps he would prefer a rabbit? They were soft and he could pet them. Alayne was exhausted by the time dinner was over and went to Robert's room to tuck him into bed.

Four stories later Alayne was free and went to the library to fetch her copy of the _Maiden's Book_. She studied quietly, reading the words but forgetting the meaning a moment later. She was bored of this life, fearful of this life. Sansa Stark was always in danger, and here, surrounded by so many people, she could never forget her mummer's act. True, it was easier each day, and she often forgot she was Sansa for long periods of time, yet when she had to make up stories, such as her pet goat, she was always slightly afraid she would make a mistake that would reveal her identity.

She longed to go anywhere where she had relatives; perhaps to the cold wall to see Jon Snow, despite the fact it was far from certain she would be welcomed. Riverrun, she knew, had been sacked, and her Uncle Edmure and his wife were permanent guests of Casterly Rock.

She laughed bitterly. She was, through marriage, the true mistress of Casterly Rock. With Tywin Lannister dead and Jaime Lannister unable to inherit, the castle by law should go to her husband Tyrion. She wondered how quickly her head would roll if she dared show up at the castle and demand the Tullys' freedom. She wondered if Cersei would let them live. If she did not, Alayne realized that she would be the heir to Riverrun as well. Hoster Tully had three heirs that survive childhood: Edmure, Catelyn, and Lysa. If Edmure and his child were to die, then as Catelyn's only surviving child, Sansa Stark would be the heir to Riverrun. Of course, Riverrun had been given away to Lannister supporters. Possible heir to four of the seven great houses. It was too much. Much easier just to stay a bastard daughter.

She shuddered as she wondered if Riverrun was Baelish's true objective. He had been raised there and fell in love there. His true objective must be more than simply taking care of Catelyn Tully's daughter, she knew. But he could only have Riverrun through Sansa Stark.

She slammed the book shut in frustration. She wished her father would be more transparent with his plans. She was always guessing, being told only the parts he wished her to know. Before, she had been fine with this arrangement, but as she grew older she desired to know more. Plan more. To not sit about waiting. She rose from her chair to retire. She was spending the night with Myranda Royce and did not want to be late. She must always obey her courtesies, even if frustrated.

She arrived to Myranda's suites to find both her and Mya in their cups. They were giggling and Mya ran straight up to Alayne and picked her up in a giant bear hug. Alayne was surprised; Mya was not one to physically touch, but she was also happy that Mya was including her in her happiness. "What is going on?" she gasped through the very tight hug.

Mya grinned, swung her around and voiced breathlessly, "Thank you for telling Randa about Lothor's feelings for me! He is wonderful and-." She stumbled and fell, Alayne and Mya crashing to the floor.

Alayne rubbed the lump on her head, but stood and handed Mya a hand as she asked eagerly, "What happened?"

Mya reached for her outstretched hand, but continued to sit splayed on the floor and simply shook the hand in excitement and said, "Oh, today he came by the stables. He said he was just checking on the structure, you know, from the storm, but"

Myranda interrupted and said, "We all know it wasn't the stable's structure he was interested in!"

Mya shushed her and continued, "We were just talking and oh, I don't know how it happened but suddenly we were kissing and he told me he was very taken by my beauty and courage and…" she trailed off, lost in the memory of the kiss.

Alayne was smiling broadly throughout the tale and sat back down on the floor to give Mya a proper hug. She looked at Myranda and asked, "Just how much have you two been drinking, anyway?" Myranda simply gave her a grin and tossed her the wineskin.

Alayne took the offered skin and japed, "No cups? I think that is a good clue that the answer is too much!" She took a long drink, not because she needed it, but because she wanted to be friends with these girls and didn't think she could stand their teasing if she didn't. Besides, it was stressful caring for Sweetrobin and protecting her identity and figuring out her father's plans. There was no harm in drinking with her friends.

The girls had apples and cheese to go with the wine and were soon cuddled in bed with the tray of foods, listening to Myranda's description of what would happen when Mya and Lothor Brune next interacted.

It was very late in the night and the girls were very intoxicated when Myranda suggested they sneak up to Lothor Brune's quarters and deliver Mya to him. "We should strip her naked and deliver her like a bride," she cried. Alayne loved the idea, and clapped, but didn't for one minute actually expect to carry out the deed. Saying and doing things were very different. Mya was laughing and shaking her head and clutching her nightshift to her body. Myranda pushed Alayne to the floor and climbed out of the bed herself. Alayne stood shivering, but Myranda simply went to the other side of the bed and tried to pull Mya off. She grabbled the bedpost with both hands, giggling uncontrollably and shrieking 'no'. Alayne stood for a moment, and laughed and went to help Myranda peel Mya from the bedpost.

Between the pair of them, they managed the feat and dragged her to the door. At the door Alayne paused. "We aren't really going to do this, are we?" she asked, suddenly sober. She looked at Mya, but she had given up struggling and was standing as eagerly as Myranda.

"I think my dad posts guards over me at night. There is probably one there now." Myranda huffed that Alayne was a spoilsport and lifted the bar on her door to open it and peek out. She exclaimed they were alone and pushed the door open further. Mya was no longer fighting and instead grabbed their cloaks and shoes and pushed the three out of the door.

Myranda and Mya struggled not to laugh as Alayne struggled not to panic. She followed after the pair to the West Tower and did her best to ignore the few people they encountered by keeping her head down and refusing to make eye contact. They were fully cloaked, so it wasn't as though anyone knew they were dressed improperly. She had nothing to be ashamed of, save the late hour. Myranda, however, dashed her hopes at being discrete when she boldly announced to the guards at the foot of the tower that they were delivering a willing maiden to the Captain of the Guards. This prompted frantic laughter from Mya and the two guards grinned at each other and let the trio pass.

Alayne became less worried as Myranda's confidence grew, and they wandered through the tower trying to remember where Brune slept. Eventually, through Myranda's bold questions, they found his small private room and pounded on the door. Alayne's face grew hot and she tried to hide along the wall when the door opened. Myranda just laughed and shoved a shrieking and blushing Mya inside.

The pair left, and Myranda turned to Alayne and asked in a low voice, "Mayhaps there are some beds for us to warm tonight?" Alayne looked at her, confused. She wasn't aware that Myranda was sleeping with anyone in particular. Certainly Alayne herself wouldn't be warming anyone's bed but Myranda's. Myranda looked at her confused face, laughed, and shrugged her comment away.

They walked slowly back through the West Tower, the energy and excitement of the night gone and the headache from drinking emerging. They heard footsteps and hid around a corner as so not to be seen.

They caught a snippet of the conversation as the men walked past, "…have wed the youngest Stark to Ramsay Bolton. Stannis is stuck in the North trying to capture Winterfell to get her and the castle back, I heard…" the footsteps quieted and Alayne swung Myranda face-to-face.

"Did you hear that?" she asked, her heart pounding. "I thought all the Starks dead." She looked Myranda in the eyes.

"Why are you staring so?" Myranda said matter-of-factly. "I heard the youngest, Arya, I believe was her name, was found in King's Landing and the crown gave her to Bolton for his loyalty. Poor child. It is said he locked poor Lady Manderly in a tower until she ate her hands in hunger. She died, of course."

Alayne was against the wall, her face white. She told herself to take deep breaths and reminded herself to remain calm. Arya was only eleven. There was no way she had flowered yet. Certainly Bolton would not consummate the marriage until she was older. But to discover her sister was alive! How could Petyr not have told her? She had family left!

"Alayne? Are you well?" Myranda looked at her shaking body.

"Yes, yes, I am fine. I just feel bad for that poor child. I didn't even know any of the trueborn Stark children still lived. Is it common knowledge, this marriage?" She was curious as whether it was possible Baelish had not told her because he didn't know, but she knew that was impossible. He knew everything that occurred within the kingdom. And he had chosen to not reveal the fact that she had a living, breathing sister. "Let us go back to your bed. I find that I am quite tired."

She walked without remembering and soon was next to a sleeping Myranda in a huge bed. She pulled the covers up to her chin and shook. She tried to convince herself that Baelish had not told her of Arya's discovery because he did not want her to do anything rash like try to contact her. Or he was fearful Arya would be killed by Bolton and thus there was no reason to worry her. But she could not help but wonder if Baelish did not tell her for selfish reasons. He wanted to keep her isolated, to feel alone. She was more malleable that way.

Her conviction strengthened as she attempted sleep, until her anger at Baelish developed into a throbbing headache of hate. He knew Arya was alive! He was keeping knowledge of her family from her for his own selfish silly game of thrones. It was unforgivable. She wasn't going to play the games his way anymore. She was a wolf. It was time to start acting like one.

She kicked Myranda awake. "Randa. I need your help."


	12. The Elder Brother III

**A/N: All of the characters belong to GRRM.**

**Chapter 12: Elder Brother III**

The Elder Brother stood in the doorway of the Hermit Hole, observing the various buildings of the Quiet Isle. The blizzard of the Vale had not been as severe on the small island, but the hard-frozen ground was still buried beneath three feet of snow. A few roofs required repair, but thank the seven gods, the isle had survived largely intact.

After again assuring himself that the brotherhood's land was stable, he reread the body of the message he held in his hand.

_I have arrived at the gate and have made contacts I can trust. I remain well hidden and safe. I trust all is well on the Isle; The Vale was heavily hit by a recent blizzard and many are dead and hundreds more are homeless. I hope no lasting damage has been done to your peaceful land. Thank you again for the horse and hospitality. Please let me know if I can be of service to you; I am grateful for all that you have done for me._

_-BT_

He absentmindedly said a short prayer to the gods thanking them for delivering the Blackfish safely and mused whether he should send a general message to the Vale asking if the brotherhood could offer support in any way. The brotherhood had a large supply of foodstuff and personal necessities such as soap and cloth. The brothers were hard workers and found happiness in creating their own provisions. Mayhaps they would be of use to those that had lost their homes. If provisions were not needed, perhaps their strong arms and hearts could be of use.

He stared north and east towards the Bloody Gate, where the Blackfish had taken refuge after leaving the Quiet Isle. He wondered whether he would be able to find military support to retake Riverrun. He rather doubted it. If the Vale was encased in snow, there was no moving their arms until it melted. Battle lines all across Westeros would probably be in near stalemates until spring. The Blackfish may very well be stuck in hiding for a long time. But with his nephew captive, Brynden Tully had also suggested he may, for the first time, entertain the idea of pursuing a wife. The Tully name had to survive and he wasn't sure whether Edmure would be allowed to do so. He did not trust the Lannister's word no matter how much they swore it was as good as gold.

The Elder Brother was quite prone to speculation; there wasn't much else to do on the isle, but he had no opinion as to whether Edmure Tully, his wife, and their presumably healthy child would be allowed to live. He very much desired to believe in the general good of people and hoped the Lannisters would be true to their vow.

The Elder Brother quit his musings on the nobility of the kingdom and turned his mind instead to more practical matters. A new Sept is to be built in the Saltpans. He had hoped it would be completed before the deep snows, but the chance of that seemed little. However, the new Septon had arrived a few days previous and sought temporary lodgings here on the isle whilst the Sept was being built. He had been accompanied north by five Poor Fellows. They were the first men of the Faith Militant to visit the isle, and the Elder Brother felt uncomfortable having armed men on his pacifistic island.

Occasionally swords and other weapons were found washed up along the banks of the Trident, but those weapons were quickly sold and rarely held by the brothers. To have the Septon and his five members of the Faith Militant here made him uneasy. The Quiet Isle had always been a peaceful refuge for the brothers, and swords and armor on men of faith ruined that image. Nevertheless, the armed men had, of course, been warmly welcomed and dined with the brothers each night. Their loud chattering words seemed to permanently alter the otherwise hushed island.

The Septon and his men had visited the Saltpans to ascertain whether or not the building of the Sept could begin and he knew they were due to return to the island shortly. He gazed across the frozen water, but he did not see their figures approaching.

He left the comfort of the Hermit Hole and slowly walked to the edge of the ice that formed around the island. The ice itself was also covered in show, creating the eerie impression that the island extended forever into the fog. The frozen water offered the Elder Brother yet another source of discomfort. Surrounded by water the island had a calming presence and felt safe from attack. But thick frozen ice did not deter criminals who may be tempted by the vast food stores guarded by passive brothers. Perchance it would be better to keep the Faith Militant here on the Isle for the winter. He would talk with them after supper. It would offer them a sense of security, especially if the winter proved long and hard.

With a new Septon, the Elder Brother's unofficial duty of taking confessions had ended. He felt conflicted. It was not his duty, nor his business to hear the inner thoughts of his brothers, but he admitted to himself that he had enjoyed it. He liked being able to offer helpful words and peek inside of their minds. He was especially concerned with the novice who had once been known as the Hound.

Of recent, the man had been too dutiful. He never shirked from his responsibilities and went above and beyond the basic chores assigned to him. Yet he seemed to gain no pleasure from his intense devotion to his tasks. The Elder Brother was worried the man was drifting and may, in heart, already be lost to the brotherhood. He understood that a life devoted to the Faith was not what the gods destined for every man, but he felt that surely the gods intended it for this particular man. They had left him in his path and it was the Elder Brother's duty to guide him back to the Faith.

He had slowly been walking his way around the island and had reached the southern banks. A glace ahead showed him that the new Septon and his Faith Militant guards were just now returning. Snow had been cleared from the ice, creating a path between the island and the distant shore, and the Elder Brother walked out to meet the Septon.

They met near the middle and the Elder Brother stopped to stroke the head of the Septon's horse. "How goes the plan to build at the Saltpans?"

The new Septon shook his head dismally. "The people in the coastal towns are fearful of rebuilding. They have heard of the Kraken attacks in the Reach and then the capture of the Stormlands by unknown raiders. Some say it is the Targaryens returned from the dead. It is still far away, but the people are worried these attacks are related and the ships will work their way up the eastern coast and attack other cities. Many of the people who had come back to the Saltpans after the rape months ago have again scattered. I do not believe they will be able to survive a long winter in the Saltpans. The food supplies were severely depleted."

The Elder Brother nodded. The Saltpans had been a large and busy port. If it did not rebuild before the winter, he wondered if the site would be permanently abandoned. But a new Sept had to be built somewhere. Maidenpool was too far of a journey for the average man. Once the war was over, he was sure it would be rebuilt, out of necessity of trade and commerce. But if it was not to be rebuilt for years, where would the temporary Sept be placed?

He was strongly against a Sept being constructed on the Quiet Isle. The brotherhood was isolated, and though visitors were welcome, they were few and far between and that was the way the brothers liked it. If a public Sept was built, a constant stream of pilgrims would make their way to the island, interrupting their solitude. The Elder Brother knew he needed a tactful way to tell the Septon and his Faith Militant guard that it would be best to go ahead with plans to build at the Saltpans, even if the people were not there presently. The faithful would come when they needed strength from the gods.

He scratched behind the horse's ear as he considered how to best phrase his words. "Perhaps building a Sept at the Saltpans is exactly what the common people need to anchor their new settlement. With a place to worship they will flock back and you can calm their fears. When hungry they will turn to the faith for help. They need to know where to find that. Even if the settlement is sparse, people near and far will find comfort from knowing a Sept is in the Saltpans."

The Septon listened intensely and then, to the Elder Brother's surprise, laughed. "The Crone has guided me to see your thoughts. For a man of the gods, you are selfish. You do not wish for the common people to see the fruits of your island in the deep of winter. You wish to save your supplies for the well-to-do brothers rather than the common people. Look around you, brother. These five men who have sworn themselves to the gods are called Poor Fellows for a reason. They know the struggles of the common man." He looked to his guards. "Brothers, would you see this island closed off to the hungry and those seeking comfort in the Faith? Or would you see it open for all to find a hearty meal and a warm place to worship?"

The five Poor Fellows all voiced their agreement with the Septon. The Elder Brother was dismayed. He did not mean to be selfish, and would gladly share the island's supplies, but what the Septon was suggesting was folly. The brotherhood itself would not survive if they were feeding all of the pilgrims. Everyone would starve.

"I can see we are in disagreement. Mayhaps we can further discuss this issue after dinner. I am needed elsewhere at this time." He quickened his pace and shortly stepped off of the ice and back onto the firm ground of the island. He sought out Brother Narbert, as he was the proctor giving the reading after dinner. He wanted to make sure he selected a passage appropriate to sway the Septon's opinion to his own views.

After discussing the issue with Brother Narbert he sought out the novice. He may not need to confess to him any longer, but wanted to make sure he understood it was still an option. He found the novice making butter. The man gripped the plunger with both hands and was churning with a rapid speed. The Elder Brother watched him as he worked. His hood was pushed back, the wool removed from his face, and his brow was furrowed and dripping from the effort. His mouth was grim and the asymmetry due to his childhood burns was accentuated with each grunt. The Elder Brother thought the man churned as though his life depended upon the speed of it. He quietly watched the novice work for several minutes without tiring before clearing his own throat. The novice was startled by the sound and looked up, though he continued to churn with as much effort as before he was disrupted.

Sweat dripped through the twisted black scars that marred the novice's face. The Elder Brother watched, temporarily mesmerized by the sight. He wondered how difficult it had been for him to grow up such a disfigurement. The novice continued to look up at him, so he again cleared his voice and spoke. "I know things have been a bit unsettled with the new Septon and his Faith Militant, but I wanted to assure you that you can still continue to confess with me if you prefer. I feel as though you were led to me and I want to help guide you in anyway I can."

The novice continued to stare at him, unresponsive, his arms still working hard to churn the butter. The Elder Brother explicitly asked him, "Would you prefer to continue confessing to me?"

The novice searched his eyes before nodding a curt yes and offering a sorry attempt at a smile. He dropped his gaze back to the barrel and continued churning.

The Elder Brother left mildly satisfied. Clearly the novice was going through a trying time with his faith, but obviously trusted him to lead him through it. He might be fighting a losing battle over the location of the new Sept, but he was not going to lose the man the gods had placed before him to save.


	13. Alayne IV

**A/N: All of the characters belong to George RR Martin. **

**Chapter 13: Alayne IV**

The snow had not melted, but had become much more manageable as the weeks passed. Most paths between the various localities of the Vale had been cleared, the bodies buried beneath the frozen lands, and people made merry as they crammed in tight quarters at the Gates of the Moon.

Alayne Stone's fifteenth name day was but two weeks away and she knew it was time to attempt her plan. She had not wanted to, but after weeks of what she felt was groveling, she still had not heard from Petyr Baelish's mouth the words she had heard from the guards; Arya Stark was alive and married in the north. Alayne had given him plenty of time and hints, yet he had never deigned to speak to her of the Stark family. It was time she took the game into her own hands.

She said all of these things very confidently in her mind. But when alone in her room adorned with mockingbirds she tried to speak the words aloud and her hands would shake and her voice would stammer. But she knew it was the right choice. She had to accept the idea that Littlefinger may not have the best intentions in his plans for her.

She once again checked to make sure her door was bolted. It was, of course. She needed to stop looking. She took a deep breath and pulled her last remaining bottle of hair dye from the bottom of her clothes chest. She carefully placed it upon the shelf and removed her hood to study her hair. The auburn roots were over an inch long and when she brushed her hair it created the most bizarre-looking part down the center of her head. The transition from red to brown was abrupt and severe. She sighed, looking at the small bottle, but she knew it was necessary to look her best tomorrow. It would be a relief to not hide behind her hoods for a few days.

She stopped stalling and carefully applied her dye to the roots, trying to conserve as much dye as possible. She had already called for a bath and bathed herself before rinsing the dye out of her hair. She dried off quickly, pulled on her slip, and stood before the warmth of the fire as she again combed through her hair. She looked again into the mirror. A young maiden with perfect chestnut hair stared back. She pinched her cheeks for color and was pleased with the results. Her cheeks should be very rosy indeed after their long ride tomorrow.

She called for Gretchel to remove the water and retired for the night. Her dreams were upsetting and she woke more than once, sweating with relief that they had not been real. Yet each time she relaxed enough to fall back asleep, she fell into the same dream. Littlefinger was a mockingbird, pecking her eye with his beak as Harry attempted to remove her maiden clock. He would kiss her cheek, but as his cheek brushed her own it turned into twisted black scars that scratched at her face. Then he would face her and would shrink to the size of a dwarf, but with Joffrey Baratheon's face. He reached forward and ripped her dress, exposing her to the audience. Littlefinger would swoop down, pecking at her breasts. She woke screaming each time, the Hound's words from long ago screaming in her mind, "_A dog can smell a lie, you know. Look around you, and take a good whiff. They're all liars here, and everyone better than you_."

Baelish was one of the few people who had survived King's Landing, everyone else was dead. He must be a better liar than them all. She thought back to all those that had died there; King Robert, King Joffrey, her father, all of her father's men, even Septa Mordane. But the Vale was prosperous. No one had reasons to lie. Mayhaps she could trust Myranda and Mya.

When it was finally time to rise she again called for a bath. She needed to wash the dreams away. After Gretchel left she carefully packed a small bag with her most beautiful gown and jewels that were still befitting a bastard daughter. She dressed warmly and hurried to Myranda Royce's suites.

Mya Stone was already there, waiting and mocking Myranda as she debated which jewels to pack. Mya was dressed in warm wools as well, but Alayne would wager her small bag contained not a dress but clean leathers.

Myranda giggled with delight when she saw Alayne enter the room. "I'm so glad you asked us to be part of your dutiful daughter rebellion! We needed some excitement in these dreary days."

Alayne asked anxiously, "You didn't tell anyone, did you?"

Myranda snorted. "Of course not. That would ruin the fun. Besides, the idea of knowing about events before your all-knowing father will give us all great pleasure." Mya nodded in agreement and Alayne relaxed very slightly.

"You look a fright, by the way. You need to calm yourself down." Alayne smoothed her hair and attempted a smile. Be bastard brave, she reminded herself. She stood a bit taller. She felt a bit braver just being with her friends. Her friends. They were her friends, and they would help her. She wasn't alone anymore. She had people she could trust.

Mya casually asked, "Are you now going to tell us what man we are chasing after to beg for marriage? You can't possibly expect us to go all the way to the Bloody Gate not knowing!"

Alayne blushed to her chestnut roots. She chided herself for blushing and calmly said, "Not until we are outside." She knew the walls in King's Landing were full of ears. She didn't know about the Gates of the Moon, but she wasn't taking any unnecessary chances.

Mya rolled her eyes but stopped pestering Alayne. Alayne reviewed the plan in her mind. She thought it perfect, which worried her endlessly. She knew no plan was perfect. So what was the flaw?

She, Myranda, and Mya would go for a pleasant winter ride. Surely her father would suggest a guard for his maiden daughter, though as a widow Myranda should suffice. She would request Lothor Brune, to which she hoped her father would approve. He was in love with Mya and thus she hoped he would choose to stay with the girls when they took their ride all the way to the Bloody Gate, rather than turn back to tattle upon their actions.

By the time they reached the Bloody Gate it would be too late to return for the night and they would stay as guests at the keep. She'd send a raven, of course, so her father wouldn't worry, and blame the extra trip on Myranda, which he would believe. Then the ladies would change into their beautiful gowns and mingle with the men stationed at the Gate. With any luck, Ser Harrold would be present, as he was stationed there leading sorties against the mountain clans. If he found her attractive and wished to marry her, she would beg him to surprise her father and announce their engagement on her fifteenth name-day celebration.

If he wasn't present, or didn't fall in love with her, well, then she could come back to the Gates of the Moon with her father none-the-wiser and continue playing his game until she found a new game to play. After all, he didn't wish for her to marry for many, many years. Plenty of time to decide what she wanted to do with her life rather than allow Baelish to choose. But if Harry did fall in love, they could be swiftly married, and she would be free of Petyr Baelish and his powers. She could remain Alayne Stone until Tyrion Lannister was safely pronounced dead. Then, when she revealed herself as Sansa Stark, she would have a sister reigning in the north to prove her identity. She still wasn't sure if she was ready to be married again, but she knew she'd better understand those feelings when she finally met Harry.

The girls breakfasted in Myranda's rooms, cheerful to be taking a long ride on a relatively nice winter day. When they finished the three looked for Baelish. Alayne felt braver with their support and made it through the conversation with Littlefinger swiftly and, she hoped, calmly.

As it only took half a day to cross the valley the girls cheerfully spent the morning entertaining Lord Robert, who, for one, was not cross and allowed all three admittance to his rooms. The three spent a few hours playacting Sweetrobin's favorite tales before he became exhausted and they tucked him back into bed to sleep.

"He is getting worse, isn't he?" Myranda asked anxiously.

Alayne nodded in agreement. It was so unfair that he had that short period of health and energy a month or so previously. For him to see what life could be like and then have it taken away; she understood his pain. She had once thought life was a fairytale and had everything, too. A handsome prince to marry and a wonderful life full of singers and sweets in King's Landing. A family. But she had lost it all, too. At least she still had her health. For that she could be grateful.

Brune was installed as her guard and shortly after entertaining Robert the four were atop their horses and heading west towards the valley that was between the Gates of the Moon and the keep at the Bloody Gate.

When Alayne had last passed through the valley it was full of crops and flowing rivers. The wealth and prosperity of the Vale had been evident by the beautiful scenery. Now the fields were covered with layers of snow higher than their horses' heads. She was amazed that the entire path connecting the two landmarks had been cleared. Perhaps that, too, was a sign of the region's wealth. The ability to remove that much snow surely suggested the area was prosperous.

But there were more sinister signs as well. The collapsed tops of buildings were visible from their path. Homes were abandoned and left to rot. Myranda knew the names of each resident and as the girls rode they would stop and visit those that remained in their homes. Alayne very much enjoyed the carefree conversations with these people. After all, when Harry inherited the Eyrie they would be her people. Myranda had brought foodstuff for the residents and Alayne loved seeing the happiness on the face of the children and wives who received the items.

Between visits the girls kept up a cheerful banter, and Myranda endlessly teased Mya and Brune. Halfway to their destination they stopped by a frozen lake to eat the snacks they had packed for themselves. When Lothor left to relieve himself, Mya and Myranda crowded Alayne, plucked her apple from her hand, and insisted she reveal the identity of her mystery love.

Alayne looked at the girls. Now that she was actually on her way, completing her path, she was proud of herself. She wasn't just a caged bird; she was creating her own future. She calmly answered, "I haven't yet met him, to be honest. Father has made an arrangement for me, but we have to met and agree before the engagement is announced. But father doesn't want us to wed for many years and thus does not want me to meet him yet. But I don't want to wait any longer. I want to meet him and see if I like him. Why should I wait through the entire winter before wedding him?"

Myranda laughed at that, and claimed her titillating stories were finally getting through to Alayne. "But stop changing topics. Who is the man?"

Alayne looked into their eyes. "I'm afraid you may not like him, as his reputation is wanting. It is Ser Harrold Hardyng." Mya whooped and Myranda's jaw dropped.

"Your father managed an engagement between the Eyrie's heir and a bastard?" Myranda choked, "how in the name of the seven gods did he accomplish that?"

Alayne murmured, "He's very powerful and good with coins." She quickly hurried to correct Myranda's thought and added, "We aren't engaged, not yet. He has to approve of me."

Myranda studied Alayne's face. "Is that why you didn't wear that terrible hood today? He'll like you, all right. You are young, beautiful, and so innocent that he will want to pluck you immediately. Be sure not to give it to him until you are wed."

Alayne did blush at that last statement, and was saved an answer when she noticed Brune returning. "Brune is back. Should we tell him we've decided to go on to the Bloody Gate? Or merely ignore his protests when we head west rather than east?"

"Shall we turn back?" Lothor predictably asked when within hearing distance. The girls giggled and looked to each other, debated the next move. Alayne nudged Myranda. She took the hint and answered decisively, "Ser Lothor, we've decided that the day is too fine to return to the Gates of the Moon. We'll continue on and stay at the keep of the Bloody Gate for the night."

Lothor sighed. Alayne struggled not to laugh as she pictured his internal debate; wondering whether or not he should bother to challenge the three confident women, two of whom were very vocal in their opinions. He was a quiet man, and chose not to battle the will of the women. "Very well. Either way we should be along soon. The night arrives early in the winter."

Myranda tossed Alayne's apple back to her as they shook out the blankets they had sat upon as they feasted. Alayne finished her apple on horseback, happy and confident her plan was working.

The sun was low in the sky, and soon directly in their eyes. Alayne closed her eyes and trusted the sway of her horse. She fell behind Mya, who seemed to be as able with horses as she was with mules. She daydreamed about the evening as they rode.

The arrived at the keep and were greeted warmly. Myranda and Mya were well known, of course, and the three were quickly ushered to an unused guest room. Myranda and Alayne washed and changed into their gowns, and, as Alayne had correctly guessed, Mya changed into clean leathers.

There was no Maester at the Bloody Gate, but Myranda assured Alayne that the Gate Septon housed ravens and she could easily send a message to her father through him. The girls went to the small sept at the Gate and sought out the Septon, whom they found within the Sept, directing the scrubbing of the floor. He himself was on the floor, hands and knees cleaning with the rest of his brothers, when he spotted Myranda, Mya, and Alayne. He stood and welcomed her to the sept.

"Are you so short of hands that the Septon himself must scrub the floors?" Myranda asked in astonishment after their formal greetings.

The Septon shook his head and brushed the dust from his robes as he answered, "It is the order of the new High Septon in King's Landing. No man should be above the work that keeps our faith strong. I have heard that the pious Lady Alayne abides by those rules as well, refusing her maid's help for bathing and the dressing of her hair." He looked at Alayne more closely. "Have I had the pleasure of an acquaintance before, Lady Alayne?"

Alayne's mind searched furiously for a past connection with this man, but she was certain they had never met. "No, I do not believe so, Septon. I was raised by Septas, however. Mayhaps you visited their order in the past?"

Myranda quickly interrupted before the pair could share what she knew to be boring stories, "We beg pardon intruding upon your work, Septon, but Alayne wishes to send a raven to her father, the Lord Baelish."

"Of course. Follow me," he answered, turning and walking towards his small office. "Lady Myranda, Mya, would you mind waiting outside? The office is quite small."

Alayne followed him through the narrow door. A man dressed in a brown cowl was already seated at the desk, composing his own letter. He quickly excused himself when she entered and left behind a second door. She took his vacant seat and accepted the offered quill and parchment from the Septon. She wrote a quick apology to her father, thanked the Septon, and headed out to find Myranda and Mya.

Once the girls were out of sight of the Sept, Myranda indicated the three of them should walk amongst the grounds. "Mayhaps we will come across Harry the Heir," she whispered loudly amidst her giggles. The three took a quick tour, but it was dark and they were hungry and their search was in vain. They went back to their room to refresh and then descended to the main hall, where supper was about to be served to the knights and soldiers who resided at the Gate.

They were seated as honored guests, at the dais with Ser Donnel Waynwood, the Knight of the Gate. Alayne looked across the room, wondering if Harry was present. She caught Ser Lothor's gaze at her chest and saw his eyebrows rise. She blushed when she realized he had noticed their change of attire and certainly did not approve of the trick they had played upon him. She felt momentarily guilty, but it had been necessary and she was sure Mya would be able to soothe his hurt.

They chatted amiably with Ser Donnel throughout the meal. It was clear he, and the other men at the gate, were overjoyed to have guests. Moreover, they were three unmarried women. Looking at all of the eyes upon them, Alayne was suddenly relieved to have Lothor with them. He had once saved her honor from Marillion. She hoped his services would not be necessary this evening, but she felt better nonetheless to know that he was there.

She began to wonder if her plan was not perfect, after all. Were the girls too forward? She sat up straight and modestly to make sure she did not convey the wrong appearance. She was here for only one man, and it certainly wasn't to warm his bed. Not yet, at least.

Alayne waited patiently for either Mya or Myranda to indicate whether one of the men seated at the tables was Harry. She looked for his checked sigil hanging on the wall, but it hung behind a large group of young men and she wasn't sure which man it belonged to. She eyed them nervously, wondering if one was her potential husband.

She felt foolish. It no longer felt like a perfect, unflawed plan, but rather a silly whim of a young girl, showing up uninvited to the Bloody Gate, and so unwomanly of her to suggest it. It was something Myranda would do, not sensible Alayne Stone. Her hopes faded and she just wished for the evening to finish. She dropped her gaze from the men in front of the checked red banner and listened intently to Ser Donnel.

Partway through the meal she realized Myranda was purposely stepping on her foot. She turned and Myranda whispered, "Why are you not talking with him? He is just across the table and has been staring at you intently."

Alayne blushed and looked down, "Which one is he?"

Myranda rolled her eyes and smirked, "The one with the green tunic."

Alayne took a deep breath and raised her eyes. He was staring directly at her. She blushed and dropped her gaze. She again reminded herself to be bastard brave and slowly raised her head.

He was handsome. She felt her stomach flutter nervously. She tried to ignore it. She had, after all, felt that way when she first met Joffrey. She had to learn his personality before she judged him. He smiled widely and winked at her, deepening the color of her already-pink cheeks. She took a few more breaths before coming to her senses and asking Ser Donnel to introduce her to the newest knight in the Vale so she could congratulate him on his accomplishments.

Ser Donnel laughed at her forwardness and called down the table, "Ser Harrold! Our Lady Alayne wishes to be acquainted with you so that she can congratulate you on your recent accomplishments."

Harry bantered back, "If only you had such accomplishments, mayhaps she'd wish to be better acquainted with you."

Ser Donnel was slightly affronted by this comment, as he was already the Knight of the Gate, a position once held by Brynden Tully himself, and retorted back, "At least my accomplishments are in sorties and battle. The majority of yours are in slatterns in bed."

Everyone laughed at Harry's expense, including Harry. Alayne laughed at the wit as well, but sincerely hoped his behavior would improve once he was engaged to her. But she felt her confidence improving. She could understand and participate in courtly banter.

Harry called back, "Shall I take you on as a squire to train you in my arts? I've heard I'm the most skilled at night in bed and as a knight in battle."

A third man called out, "Mayhaps that is why Lady Alayne asked to be introduced. She wants to help with the training!"

Alayne blushed but welcomed the friendly flirting she had missed in King's Landing. She felt included. She answered back, "I dare say I'd be useless in the training. My bedding skills are as unproven as my sword skills." She was shocked the words came from her own mouth, but saw Harry and Myranda laughing appreciatively and her confidence was restored for the evening.

When supper ended the girls were merrily in their cups and slowly exited the hall, allowing ample time for Ser Harry to approach them. Mya and Myranda were giggling with anticipation of the meeting and it was contagious. Alayne nervously giggled as well as she waited for his approach.

"I've been told by many that Lady Alayne was very pious, well-behaved, and quiet," Harry began as he joined the girls, "but I see Lady Myranda's influence has changed that. A ride to the Bloody Gate simply to view the winter snows?" he laughed at the transparency of her purpose. The girls laughed along, but Harry pulled Alayne apart from Myranda and Mya and whispered, "Am I right in assuming you came to see me?"

She blushed to her roots and nodded. "I didn't want to wait all winter. I apologize if it is improprietous. But my father did not want us to meet for many years and I just could not help but be curious."

Harry smirked at that comment and asked, "Well? What do you think about me?"

Alayne continued to blush and answered, "I think you handsome and amiable. But it is your decision, not mine." Truth be told, she had no idea whether she liked him or not. It took her many months to discover Joffrey's true nature and she was hesitant to trust this man simply on his appearance and wittiness.

Harry laughed and said, "You are quite beautiful, but I barely know you." He trailed his fingers across her arm. Alayne felt goosepricks at his touch and blushed an even deeper red. His hand moved from her arm to her hair and caressed it gently before moving it beneath her chin, forcing her to look at him.

Time stopped. Alayne felt the thrill of anticipating, wondering if and hoping that he would kiss her, yet still her heart thumped and she feared it as well.

The moment broke when Ser Lothor's voice suddenly rang out across the stone hall. "Ser Harrold, I would ask you not to proposition my Lord's daughter in my presence. I am here to guard her honor."

Alayne felt disappointed when Lothor was done speaking. The moment was lost. But wasn't it telling that she wished it would return? Impulsively she decided she liked this man. Perhaps in time she would even gladly wed him. She whispered, "My father plans a great fifteenth name-day for me a fortnight hence. Mayhaps you could visit the Gates of the Moon and attend, if you find me to your liking?" She gathered her courage and kissed his cheek chastely before turning to exit with Mya and Myranda.

The night was, of course, full of giggles and japes from Myranda and Mya, but Alayne could not focus on their fun. She could only focus on imagining whether Ser Harrold found her to his liking and whether he would kiss her the next time they saw each other.

The next day they broke their fast on cold grains and milk and hurried back to the Gates of the Moon. Halfway through the trip Myranda surprised Alayne by riding close and asking, "Now that you well on your way to getting married, maybe you should arrange a marriage for your best friend."

Alayne laughed, and asked, "Are you interested in someone? I imagined you wouldn't need my help finding another husband. Unless you have a poor reputation from his dying whilst in bed!"

Myranda gazed at Alayne frankly and said, "I do wish for your help. I think it is time to end your poor father's melancholy loneliness."

Alayne was shocked. "Did he ask to marry you?" She could not imagine Petyr married. He was too focused on his goals. He wanted power, and he already controlled the Vale. Marriage within it would not make sense.

Myranda shook her head no and continued, "No, it is a plan of my own. Will you help me? Suggest that I would make a good wife?"

Alayne was torn. She felt tricked, as though Myranda had simply been helping her with Harry to gain her trust. She did not think Petyr was interested in marriage. Moreover, she no longer trusted him. But how could she explain these things to Myranda without giving away her identity? She finally murmured, "I'll do my best for you, but I truly do not believe he has any interest in remarriage."

Myranda looked at her carefully, and exclaimed, "Oh Alayne, you know you are my dear friend regardless? I only ask because I believe we would be a good match. But if it makes you uncomfortable please forget I asked."

Alayne knew she would never forget. The Hound's words again rang in her head, "_A dog can smell a lie, you know. Look around you, and take a good whiff. They're all liars here, and everyone better than you_." She had thought Myranda was exempt from the liars. She had no reason to lie. But was she wrong? Did she also have a game in her mind, and was using Alayne as a piece, just as Petyr was using her? Was the whole world nothing but people playing games at the expense of others? Sometimes she wished she could just run away like the Hound had done after the battle. She wondered what had happened to him. What would have happened to her if she had gone with him? She'd probably be dead somewhere. Best to forget about things that had already happened.


	14. The Mad Mouse IV

**Chapter 14: The Mad Mouse IV**

**A/N:** Sorry for the long delay. Work has been very busy as of late.

Of course, these characters belong to GRRM.

Ser Shadrich had thanked the seven gods for his good luck, and then, just in case, had thanked the old gods for sending a blizzard at such an opportune time. But he was not completely unscathed from his battle; a long open wound ran the length of his left arm. He had treated it to the best of his abilities, but it was festering, he was feverous, and he knew he must risk detection and return to Gulltown to find someone to heal it.

He rode slowly back into the direction of Gulltown, slumped in his saddle, the past days blurring together in his mind as he reflected upon his changed fortunes. He had left Lord Baelish's solar after negotiating his new contract and immediately the next day was atop a horse with three knights in his service. Lord Baelish had of recent been receiving frequent reports of gold hunters seeking Sansa Stark in the harbors, and was sending Shadrich to deal with the escalating problem at his own discretion.

His gold purse chinked merrily as they rode; yet Ser Shadrich himself had not been merry. Despite his new position, he was not certain he could trust the Lord Baelish and was half fearful the three knights had in truth been sent to turn on him and kill him for discovering Alayne Stone's true identity.

The path to Gulltown was treacherous and hindered by deep snowfalls. Each night they made camp and each night he wondered if that would be the night they came to kill him. Yet he survived the trip, and the knights became his comrades as his trust grew in the validity of his new position.

He found lodgings at one of Baelish's brothels and relished in the soft bedding and women after a few days of sleeping on frozen grounds fearing for his life. The next day he went to question the fishwife whom had originally made the report to Baelish. Baelish's coin truly could be found in many pockets throughout Westeros.

She was larger, taller than him, and bit the dragon suspiciously with all four of her remaining teeth before pocketing it in deep in her bosom. "I was working as usual selling my fresh fish when two people came on up to me and started asking about whether or not I'd seen a highborn maiden girl around here."

Ser Shadrich nodded patiently and asked, "What did they look like? Can you describe them to me?"

The fishwife nodded importantly and continued, "Well, that was the surprising part, you see. They was both tall and I thought at first they was two men, being as they were strong and all, but then I realized the ugly one was a woman."

"The ugly one?"

"She was broad in the shoulders and had brown hair. She kept her face covered, but once it slipped and she was ugly. Her face had holes in her cheeks like rats ate through her face." Shadrich pondered this bit of information. He had thought immediately, upon hearing it was a woman, of that wench he had met on the road to Duskendale. She had been broad of shoulders, tall, with brown hair, and ugly, as he recalled. But she had been traveling alone. He remembered that she bought a room for her companions at the inn where they had all dined together, only for the wench to desert the inn early in the morning, leaving behind the men she had traveled with. Still, how many ugly women posing as knights could there be? It must be her.

"What did the man look like?"

"He was sporting a scraggly blonde beard and was missing his right hand." This pair was distinctive, Shadrich was sure he could follow their trail.

"Did they give their names?" She tilted her head in thought before shaking no.

"You are sure it was just the two of them? Did they say where they were staying or where they were going?"

The fishwife shook her head slowly and jerked her thumb to indicate they had headed north into the heart of the town. Shadrich thanked her with another dragon and turned to head north, following their trail.

The rest of his search was unrevealing and his feet were exhausted by the time he settled back into his comfortable bed. The next day he questioned the sailors and crew of the few ships left in harbor and other workers in the area.

Ser Shadrich was usually an optimistic person, but by the third night he was feeling low and again took solace in buying a woman to warm his bed for the night. Her chestnut hair reminded him of Alayne Stone and he mumbled, as he had been asking all day, "I'm looking for gently born girl of three and ten with auburn hair." The woman stopped and looked at him. Shadrich had been about to protest when she said, "Someone asked me that not three days past."

Shadrich straightened up excitedly, pleasure forgotten, and ordered, "Tell me what you remember."

She looked at him curiously and answered, "It was a man and woman. She was big. Said the girl was their relation and that they were worried for her safety." She paused and looked at his orange hair. "Are you related to this maiden?"

Shadrich thought the lie appropriate and nodded yes. "She was kidnapped nearly a year ago. I have been searching for her ever since." He paused, pretending to reflect painfully upon his lost sister, before asking, "Lord Baelish owns this brothel. Why did you not pass this information on to him?"

She laughed and said, "I didn't know it was important. I told them to try the other brothels. Some are full of young girls."

Relieved to have picked up their trail, Shadrich settled back against his pillows and enjoyed her fully.

The next day he inquired at all of the city brothels and soon stumbled upon the address for their last known lodgings. He went to the Inn and sat in a dark corner, his shocking orange hair hidden beneath his hood. He ordered ale and waited. He did not have to wait long. They came through the front entrance and took a table halfway across the room. They sat on opposite sides, and did not talk much as they ate.

Shadrich studied them carefully. It was, without a doubt, the wench he had encountered on his trip to Duskendale as a hired sword to protect the merchant Hibald. But who was the man? And what had happened to her face? She had removed the protective covering to eat and it was, as the fishwife had described, as though someone or thing had tried to eat her face. He thought he could see part of her jaw or teeth and wondered how she could properly manage to chew her food.

The man was dressed in a plain tunic with no indication of a house, despite a beautifully wrought scabbard hanging from his waist. He was clumsy, eating with a left hand when clearly he had preferred the right before his loss of limb. He once knocked his wine glass with the useless limb, but the wench deftly caught it and sat it upright before spilling any wine. The man seemed to stiffen slightly at the exchange, but both ignored it and continued their meal in silence. Once finished, the wench called for extra food and carefully carried it to the upper level, presumably to retire to their rooms, and Shadrich located the innkeeper to inquire after lodging for himself.

He discovered they had acquired the two best rooms of the inn and he requested the next best remaining. He climbed onto the bed, boots and all. He wanted to be ready to follow them the next morning. He was restless in bed, wondering how the wench had found a colleague. She had been rough, unpleasant, and trusted no one. The man was maimed, perhaps that lowered her guard? He did not resemble her with his grizzly blonde beard and attractive face, but as he was claiming to be related to Sansa as well… Shadrich's thoughts broke excitedly as he realized that Sansa Stark did in fact have a one-handed relation, her husband's brother, Jaime Lannister. Could it truly be him? It seemed unfathomable that Lannister could be hunting her for gold; Casterly Rock had more than enough of that. And how in Westeros could he have wound up gaining the wench's trust and hunting for Sansa together?

But, he realized, he had heard that Lannister had been missing for several months. He had simply vanished one day from his army. Mayhaps he had found the missing man. But how did this ornery woman wind up consorting with a Lannister? Rumor was that Sansa had killed King Joffrey, presumably Jaime's own son. Did Lannister want Stark safe or dead? Shadrich wasn't sure which and drifted off to sleep unsettled as to the purpose of the unlikely pair.

He woke early to noise in the hall and peeked out his oaken door to spy a moon-faced boy lugging a saddlebag down the hall to the stairway. It looks like Shadrich discovered the extra mouth. He'd been wondering why the wench had ordered an extra meal and taken it up the stairs the previous night. He followed the child down the stairs and watched him saddling and loading three horses. The boy seemed dumb; he wondered why the wench would bother herself with such a burden.

The Mad Mouse spent the morning trailing the three until they found new lodgings. He then rode back to the harbor and sent a raven to Lord Baelish. He would be highly interested to learn that none other than Jaime Lannister was pursuing his daughter.

Shadrich wondered whether the three were making their way to the Gates of the Moon. It was common knowledge that the late Lysa Arryn was Lady Sansa's aunt, so it was as good place as any to search for the missing girl.

Shadrich next stopped at the brothel and found the three knights under his direction. They reluctantly returned with him to the new inn at which Lannister and the wench were staying for the night. He wasn't going to let them slip from his fingers and would keep a tail on them until he received a raven back from Littlefinger.

Shadrich and his men sat in the common room and drank sour ale until the Kingslayer and wench returned for the night. The moon-faced boy was absent, and must have remained in the rooms today as well.

Shadrich was seated such that he was facing the Kingslayer, which worked well for him, as he did not want the wench to recognize him. At least not yet. He strained to listen, but their conversation was stunted and unenlightening.

He spent his days following the pair as they moved throughout Gulltown. They were very thorough in their questioning and he was extremely bored following them on their unfruitful path. He was relieved when he finally received a raven from Littlefinger. Littlefinger ordered him to quietly get rid of the pair at any cost. The Mad Mouse was overjoyed to finally have a change in action.

The next morning he awoke and packed his horse early, at the same time the moon-faced boy usually packed the wench's horse. The boy came to the stables shortly, struggling under the weight. Shadrich casually leaned over and pushed the bags upright into the boy's arms. His wide eyes opened in shock.

Shadrich stared at the boy. What on earth had happened to him? His neck was raw and red and dark, as though he had been burned clear around his neck. It formed a circle. With a start, Shadrich realized the child had been hung. "You've had a rough life, haven't you, boy?" he asked kindly.

The boy averted his eyes and continued to quietly pack. Shadrich laughed and offered his hand. "My name's Shadrich, and I am traveling alone. You?"

The boy stared at the hand, dumbstruck, and swallowed deeply before cautiously extending his hand and shaking. Shadrich had expected a limp hand like his personality, but was impressed by a firm shake. "Come on, boy, I'll treat you to breakfast."

The boy shook his head no, but Shadrich gently put his arm around his shoulders and walked him back to the dining hall and placed him at a table. Shadrich sat such that he could watch the stairwell. His three knights were seated nearby, but out of hearing. The boy kept glancing nervously back to stairwell. Probably to see when that wench arrived. "Where do you call home, boy?" he asked after ordering them a large breakfast. The child stared down at the table, but quietly whispered, "Nowhere."

Now that was interesting, Shadrich thought. He tried to coax another answer out of him, prompting, "And to where will you travel?"

The boy glanced up quickly, but dropped his eyes again as they made contact with Shadrich's. "Not sure," he murmured quietly. Shadrich laughed heartily and said, "Aren't we all, boy, aren't we all. No one knows where they stand in this terrible war." He saw the boy peeking upward to his face, but pretended not to notice. "I myself am headed to the Gates of the Moon," he lied. "I hear I can find a good job there as a knight. Would you like to be a knight, boy?" He saw the boy look up, and nod the tiniest of nods, as though he was trying to convince himself that it was what his heart desired.

Mercifully, for the boy, their meal arrived and they ate in silence for a few minutes until the wench lumbered awkwardly down the stairs. The boy sensed her presence and turned nervously to look at her. She and the Kingslayer spotted him and walked their way to Shadrich's table. The wench looked at the boy curiously and asked, "Pod? Have you made a friend?" Pod must be the boy's name, Shadrich thought. Terrible name. If possible, he pitied him more.

Pod nodded and spoke quietly, "This is Ser Shadrich." The wench looked up, and stared at him more closely. "We met before," she muttered, her eyes widening in recognition.

"Oh, yes, my good lady," Shadrich crooned, "But you ran out in the middle of the night."

This was the first time Shadrich looked closely at her face, but the maimed portion was carefully covered. "What happened to you?" he sneered. "You were never a beauty, but…" he let his voice trail off. He actually was curious, so he didn't want to enrage her too much.

The Kingslayer, who had been standing quietly, quickly changed the subject, "I'm sorry, I hadn't been introduced to your friend, Brienne." He said the words sarcastically. Shadrich turned and promptly smiled, "I'm the Mad Mouse. Ser Shadrich at your service. Your lady friend and I met on the road to Duskendale. We are hunting for the same thing, you see." He wiggled his eyes up and down at the Kingslayer, causing Lannister to roll his own eyes in response.

He turned back to the wench. "Oh, dear wench. I see that you have not found what you were searching for, but at least you found yourself a man. And what a man. One missing his hand, but I'm sure his surname gives you the pleasure the hand cannot." The three of them gasped. Pod continued to look at the table. The wench turned red, which Shadrich found curious. Mayhaps she had feelings after all.

The Kingslayer muttered dryly, "So you know who I am, do you little mousie?"

"Of course. I make it my business to know everything."

"Not everything. It seems you, too, are still missing what we seek." Shadrich smiled at that comment. In fact, he knew exactly where Sansa Stark was, but he was not revealing that to these two.

"Break your fast with me?" Shadrich asked as a peace offering. He couldn't chase them off on an empty belly, after all. The two reluctantly sat on either side of Pod and called for food.

Shadrich continued a constant chatter, asking them how their search was going. He was careful not to actually mention the name of Sansa Stark. The wench was just so stubborn and private about the name.

The three of them were rather quiet, avoiding answering his questions. He had to scare them away from the Vale somehow. Finally, Shadrich muttered, "Well, let's get this straight. We are both looking for the same _thing_. I'm looking in the Vale for the said thing. You can join me and split the profits or go elsewhere. " The wench's face smoldered but she said nothing. The Kingslayer laughed and said, "I'd like to see you try and force that. The _Lady_ Brienne here could beat you any day."

The Mad Mouse looked at her appraisingly. She continued to redden but flexed her fingers over her plate in anticipation. She was rather larger than him, but he doubted any woman could beat him in a sword fight. He continued to eye her up and down but the Kingslayer hastily muttered, "It was a jape. Keep your sword down. I want to continue eating the fine food our mouse friend here so graciously offered us." He eyed Shadrich suspiciously as he spoke.

The wench found her voice and jeered, "Why ever not? I beat you and you leave us alone." She paused and added, "And stop searching for Sansa Stark. I don't want your gold-grubbing hands on her."

The Kingslayer waved his stub between them, trying to reduce the tension between the pair. The wench angrily pushed the Kingslayer back spitting, "Don't you trust me? I can beat him."

The Kingslayer muttered, "I trust you," but remained alert.

"What's the problem? Lost your manhood along with your arm? Need a woman to fight your battles?" Shadrich taunted. He pulled his body back from the table as the Kingslayer lunged across it, towards him, but the wench pulled him back. Only the food was disturbed.

"Fine," Lannister shouted, raising heads in the hall. He lowered his voice. "But let's go outside at the very least." He stood and stalked out the door. The wench eyed Shadrich uneasily and waited for him to step past her and follow the Kingslayer out the door.

"Wait," she called as he reached the entryway. "I have to go and get my sword. I'll be out in a moment." Shadrich laughed. Did she have a lucky sword? He rolled his eyes at the woman and walked out to the courtyard. His men followed and took shelter against the building.

The snow was falling thickly. The grounds, freshly swept when he had entered the inn, now had several inches of snow atop it. He squinted through the blizzard until he spotted the Kingslayer.

Lannister was pacing back and forth, waiting for the pair to emerge. "This is stupid," he muttered when Shadrich spotted him and headed in his direction. "Just stay away from my sister-in-law. You want gold? I'll give you gold from Casterly Rock. Just stop hunting for the girl."

Shadrich pretended to be interested. "Hum… how much gold could you give me? How do you know it would be enough to make me stop searching for her?"

Jaime rolled his eyes. "You are right. You are untrustworthy. No gold would be enough for the likes of you."

Shadrich was affronted. He was, in fact, very honorable. "You do me wrong, Kingslayer. I am true to my word."

"Then remind me why you are called the Mad Mouse? Doesn't sound very trustworthy to me. Can you vouchsafe your word and honor?"

Shadrich countered, "I'm the Mad Mouse because I run into battle when everyone runs out. Isn't that trustworthy? I will always fight."

Lannister laughed. "Then why aren't you fighting for one of the many kings in the land?"

Shadrich bristled. He had lost his fortune to ransom during the Battle of the Blackwater. "That is old news. I'm done with that until I re-make my fortune. And the best way to do that is to find Sansa Stark. Now, where should I battle your wench?" He looked around the grounds, finding a relatively flat section of yard against the back of the inn. "How about right here? You excited to see her fall? They used to talk of your beauty, Kingslayer. I'm sure you could find a better doxy than her, even if you are a cripple."

The Kingslayer drew his sword and shouted, "Her name is _Lady _Brienne. Show her some respect."

She chose that moment to enter the courtyard, accompanied by the dullard boy, Pod. "Jaime, this is my battle, not yours," she shouted. Jaime's sword dropped and he went back to muttering about the ridiculousness of the situation.

Shadrich grinned at the wench. "Are you ready, my _Lady_? Shall we just fight to first blood? I wouldn't want to be responsible for harming such a beautiful woman as yourself."

She growled and drew her sword. It was breathtaking, with a ruby hilt and blood red colors shimmering in the blade. Shadrich stared at it in awe. "Do you like it, little mouse?" she called. "It is Eddard Stark's own sword. I will protect his daughter with his own sword." She sounded confident.

"Not bad," Shadrich acknowledged, licking his lips. "So what are our terms?" He didn't really care where the pair went, so long as they didn't wind up at the Gates of the Moon, where Petyr Baelish was safely hiding Sansa Stark. But he might as well give them a specific destination. He continued, "If I win, you leave the Vale. Go hunt for her at Winterfell. Word has it her little sister is now the mistress there." The snow up there couldn't possibly be any worse than the snow falling now, and if not, Stannis's army was up there. That should keep the Kingslayer and wench busy.

The Kingslayer laughed remorsefully. "That isn't Arya Stark. Why don't _you_ go hunt there instead?"

Shadrich paused, "What?"

Lannister looked at him. "Yes, someone, probably my dear deceased father, shipped some strange changeling girl North to solidify the kingdom. Now she is a child being raped daily by that bastard Snow. Why, are you interested in hunting down every wronged child?"

"Well, that is a shame," Shadrich muttered.

The wench spoke up, "That is why I'm going to find her. I don't want that happening to Sansa. I'll protect her."

Shadrich looked at her, amused. "How do you know she isn't better protected and safer now that she will be with you? How will you protect her?"

Her face fell. "I made a vow to her mother. I will."

Shadrich rolled his eyes and asked again, "What are your conditions?"

She exchanged a look with the Kingslayer and said, "If I win, you stop hunting for Sansa Stark."

Shadrich laughed. As he had already found Stark, that was no problem. "I accept. Do you accept my terms?"

The wench nodded and held her sword in front of her body. She started pacing. Shadrich laughed and held his sword ready as well. He stepped forward to better view her through the snowfall.

She struck first, and the swords rang, echoing through the snow. They parried, snow drifting up their ankles. She was good. She was very good. Shadrich gave credit where credit was due, and she deserved it. "_Lady_ Brienne," he called. "You fight well. Are you quite certain you don't want to join me in my hunt for Sansa Stark? I'll keep the money and you can keep the girl."

She broke away, pacing, her back nearly against the building.

She rushed and drove her sword down towards Shadrich's head. He raised his to meet her blade. She pushed, forcing his knees to buckle under the weight, but he held steady. They locked eyes in a momentary stalemate. The moment passed, and then simultaneously he heard a loud boom, the wench disappeared, and everything turned white. He was splayed on the ground. How did that happen? He staggered to stand upright and blinked in confusion, wiping snow from his eyes. The inn had collapsed from the weight of the snow. The wench, closer to the building, was buried in the edge of the wreckage. He stood, dazed, vaguely aware that Lannister and the boy were pushing him away, digging, unearthing the woman.

Shadrich shook his head, trying to regain his bearings. He picked up his sword and sheathed it. The fight was forgotten. Next to him was the wench's Valyrian steel sword. He picked it up and stared at it. The red color worked into it was mesmerizing. The Stark girl was sweet; always working to keep that brat of an heir entertained and even helped him with his reading. He was tempted to steal the sword and present it to her as a gift for her upcoming name day. Well, Alayne Stone's name day, anyway. Her father's own sword. He looked at the collapsed inn. His men had been against the wall. Were they buried inside? How many were buried inside? He glanced back at the sword. He looked at the sky and asked the mother for forgiveness for stealing, but surely she wanted the sword returned to its rightful family?

He brushed himself off and stared warily at the wreckage. The Kingslayer and boy were too busy digging to notice him. He could just leave. He turned and stumbled to his horse. He was glad his horse had been packed earlier. He buried the sword deep in a saddlebag and took off towards the Gates of the Moon.

He rode for several hours thanking the new gods for the sword and thanking the old gods (after all, the Stark family kept to the old gods) for the blizzard before stopping to camp for the night. Truly, it was only midday, but he knew he could go no further. He felt dizzy and needed to rest. He dismounted and realized his entire body was aching. He went to make a fire and when he happened to glace at his left arm. It was soaked in blood. How had he not noticed before?

With a shock, he realized he had been injured in the collapse. He must be groggier than he thought. He stared at it, panic mounting. How much blood could he lose? The arm was starting to smell. He groaned and wrapped it to the best of his ability. He set camp one-armed and quickly fell asleep, shivering in the cold.

He woke to a clear sky, shivering uncontrollably. The snow had stopped. Was it the same day or the next? He squinted up to look at the sky. Early morning. He had slept for nearly a full day. Just a few more days and he could be back at the Gates of the Moon. He tried to stand and fell heavily to the ground. He landed on his left arm and yelped. Blood began to seep from his bandaging. He groaned and sniffed the arm. It was festering. He wasn't sure he could make it all the way to the Gates of the Moon. He realized he was feverous. Was he delirious as well? How could he tell when he was alone? Why had he left his men buried in the inn? He panicked, he worried he would die. He laughed hysterically. He had ridden to Gulltown terrified his own men would turn and kill him, yet in the end, his own stupidity to flee with the sword would probably kill him. "Think, Mouse!" he whispered over again to himself as he tried to wiggle feelings into his toes and brain.

He would have to go back to Gulltown for treatment. It was only a couple of hours. The Gates would be days away in this thick snow. But Gulltown… he had run away from a collapsed building. He ran away from his own men. He also did not particularly want to run into Lannister and Brienne, as he stole the wench's sword, but the thought of dying was worse. He crawled across the snow-covered ground and did his best to repack his bags. The things he couldn't lift he left behind. He made sure to wrap the sword as carefully as possible. He clumsily mounted his horse and headed back to Gulltown, slumping low in his saddle.


	15. Alayne V

**Chapter 15: Alayne V**

**A/N: Super sorry for the year delay. No real excuse, but I feel like I am getting too far away from the characters. But the big problem with this story was figuring out a good way to reunite them. I had several ideas. But the more I believed any one was plausible, the less likely I thought it would be that GRRM would do it! So I hope you like the rest of the chapters (goodness knows how many that will be, since I tend to ramble). And thanks for sticking with it. After re-reading some of my later chapters I realized that I have quite a few grammatical errors in there, so I'm glad it didn't turn too many people off!**

**Also, of course, these characters and lands all belong to GRRM.**

**A few reviewers had questions as to whether Sansa/Littlefinger knew about who was in the North married to Bolton. But Littlefinger himself put Jeyne in a brothel, and Littlefinger brought her back (perhaps not in person) to King's Landing to act as Arya. And we hear Jaime telling Brienne that it is not Arya. We never hear Littlefinger telling Sansa. Of course, in one of Sansa's first Eyrie chapters, we also hear that she thinks Tyrion is dead. So we don't know exactly what she knows. She also thinks she kissed the Hound, so she really isn't the most reliable of the POV characters. **

On Alayne's fifteenth name day she woke early, too excited and nervous to rest. She fairly flew to her small window to pull open the heavy drapes. Another clear day. Though bitterly cold, the previous fortnight had been crisp and free of snowfall, and she knew that the path betwixt the Gates of the Moon and the Bloody Gate was clear. If Ser Harrold deigned to acknowledge their engagement, he would have no trouble traveling to her evenfall feast.

Truth be told, Alayne was slightly dismayed at the size and extravagance of her feast. She had meant it to be a simple supper of friends, but between Myranda Royce's skilled hand and her father's ample gold, the simple meal had turned in to a castle-wide event. She had protested fervently that it was not fitting for a natural born daughter, but Myranda had repeatedly assured her that in the winter, celebrations were important to keep the spirits high. Many had lost family, friends, or homes during the large blizzard, and the Lord Baelish's daughter had done much to speak and help those people. Everyone would want to bless her with well wishes. "Besides, it must be spectacular," Randa had smirked, "Should Harry appear to declare his ever-lasting love for you." Alayne had blushed and smiled, but her grin disappeared when Randa finished with, "ever-lasting until he realizes you don't plan to bed him until the wedding night. Then he'll celebrate your love with a few more bastard, like as not."

She knew it to be true. Harry would stray from their marriage bed. Of course, so had Tyrion, she mused. She had been grateful for that. But she wouldn't let the unknowns of the future sadden her today. Today was her fifteenth name day.

She worried momentarily when she realized she couldn't recall her true age. How old was Sansa Stark now? Not that it mattered. Sansa Stark was the past. And her future. Once she revealed her identity. But until then, it was better to safely store those days away until she was free to think of them again. For now, she was fifteen.

She called for water and permitted Gretchel and Maddy to bath and dress her today. She still had her chestnut roots. She gasped in surprise as Maddy pulled out a beautiful, yet simple green woolen dress embroidered with tiny mockingbirds across the hems and sleeves. It was the perfect morning gown for her name day. Gretchel told her it was a gift from her father, and that he requested her to join him in his solar to break their fast.

Alayne grimaced. Her tension around him was unbearable. He had still not confided in her about Arya's whereabouts, and she could not look him in the eye for fear he would see her anger. And what would happen if he knew she no longer trusted him? Would he reveal her secret? Take her back to King's Landing and give her to Cersei for beheading? He had loved her mother, not her. Mayhaps he would decide she was not worth the trouble. To Gretchel she merely said, "Very well. Please inform Lord Robert I shall be late. I had promised to breakfast with him as well." Gretchel nodded stoically, knowing she would be subjected to Robin's temper as the bearer of bad news.

Alayne walked to her father's solar. Once she would have been bursting with ideas and thoughts, how to best approach the situation to turn it in her favor, but she was tired. Tired of lies and tired of never knowing how Petyr would react. Better to not waste her time upon thinking and just wait for his actions and words to lead her.

She entered and curtsied to her father, smiling brightly and saying, with as much warmth as possible, "Thank you ever so much for the gown, father. It is beautiful." She kept her eyes focused on his chest as to not look into his gaze.

Littlefinger rose and dismissed burly Ser Morgarth, with whom he had been consulting, before embracing his daughter, kissing her upon her forehead, and exclaiming, "Happy fifteenth name day, my sweetling." Alayne did her best to remain still and not squirm. Baelish seemed amused at her attempts, and laughingly released her from his arms.

"My sweet daughter should look happier upon her name day, I think," he said in a serious voice, though his sparkling eyes betrayed his enjoyment of her obvious discomfort. "My dear, why have you been so angry with me this past moon?"

Alayne was never sure whether he was telling truths or lies. He seemed to know everything, not just in the Vale, but all of Westeros and beyond. She continued to stare at his chest, not speaking. After a long pause, Littlefinger sighed and sat at the table. For the first time, Alayne lifted her eyes and noticed the vast array of food placed upon it. Littlefinger gestured she should sit and started eating an egg. Alayne reluctantly moved forward and placed herself opposite her father. She ripped off a chunk of bread and dipped it into honey. It was warm and delicious.

After eating quietly for a few minutes, Baelish again starting speaking, humbly for once. "Sweetling, I know why you are angry with me. It is my fault, and I truly apologize." Alayne's eyes flew up from her bread to her father's face, searching for truth. She found an apologetic face. She looked upon it hopefully, waiting for him to continue.

Baelish paused, spinning his knife with his thumb and forefinger, as though he was searching for the right words. Alayne had never seen her father at a lack for words. Was he truly sorry? He finally started, "Alayne, I know you heard news about the Stark family, and are angry with me for not sharing it with you."

"How…how did you know I knew?" she asked, incredulous. She had told no one. True, Myranda Royce was with her with she had learned the news, but they never spoke of it again. It was only in her own thoughts. How did Littlefinger even know her thoughts? She grew more fearful of him.

Littlefinger smiled a sad smile. "I'm not a spider like Varys, spinning webs to entrap secrets, but mockingbirds can fly high and far and enter many a nests. It was not a hard secret to discover. You need to learn to hide your emotions better, my dear daughter."

"Why did you not tell me," Alayne demanded, her voice growing in anger and pitch. "She is my own blood! I thought our family extinguished and yet I…" she lost her words, overwhelmed at the thought of just seeing her sister once more. Even if was just to be teased by her. But no, she had to remember. She had no sister. She was the bastard Alayne Stone of Gulltown, not Sansa of House Stark.

Baelish raised his eyebrows at her outburst, but calmly reached across the table to hold her hand gently. "It was my fault. That girl is not Arya Stark. She is an imposter, planted by Cersei to steal the North."

Alayne was speechless. "It isn't Arya?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Be glad it is not. For that poor child to be wed to that monster Bolton…" He paused, as though his throat may be choked, before swallowing deeply and continuing, "She is suffering much abuse. She will not live long under his fist. Oh, Alayne, I forget that you are no longer a child. I have tried so hard to hide from you the cruelties of the world, when I forget that you have already been exposed to so many in your youth."

Alayne spoke softly, forgiveness edging in on her voice, "That was a different girl, father. Alayne Stone knows none such horrors."

"Yes, in truth. Which is why I have tried so hard to protect you from the war and its evils." He paused again, looking into her eyes. Alayne found herself returning the gaze. "But you are a grown woman now, Alayne. You are my only kin, and I must needs tell you the truth so I always have your love and trust." He looked at her softly. "Can you forgive me for not telling you the full truth? I was only trying to protect you."

Alayne paused, the forgiveness on the edge of her tongue. She wanted to forgive, to be in truth loved by this man like a father. To have family. But, "…what were you protecting me from, Father?"

"Oh Sweetling, forgive me. Do not make me say it," he begged humbly. Alayne was astonished to hear her father speak in such tones. It nearly unmanned him, and she pleaded with him to hurry and tell, so that she did not have to hear him speak in such a manner.

"Very well. You are old enough to deserve the truth. When your…" here Littlefinger lowered his voice and whispered, "Lord Stark," rather than 'father', before continuing in his normal tone, "was arrested, I immediately tried to save his children. I pleaded with Cersei to return them to Catelyn Stark, for they were but children who had done no harm to the realm. Yet she refused. I tried, on my own, to find Arya, but she had vanished. And so I tried to rescue you instead, as you know every well."

Alayne interrupted, "Because you loved my lady mother so, even after so many years?"

Baelish corrected, "Alayne Stone's mother I loved but for a night. But Catelyn Stark was my true love, yes. I could not let harm come to children born of her." He continued his story, "When Sansa Stark was presented to Cersei after the battle, she revealed that her friend, the Steward's Daughter, Jeyne Poole, was also in her room."

Alayne mentally confirmed this information. She remembered it so clearly now. Jeyne had cried that the Hound had broken her door with a war hammer. They had hugged in bed, fearful as they waited for the unknown. She realized now that the Hound could have easily killed her friend, as everyone else loyal to House Stark had died, even her Septa, but he had not. Instead he brought Jeyne to her. "Yes, I remember," she blurted out.

"Alayne Stone remembers that?" her father asked, surprised.

Alayne, chagrined, shook her head. "No," she corrected, "I remember hearing of it, though."

Her father nodded and continued. "Sansa Stark had told the Queen of her little bedmate. I was there, on the small council. The Queen wanted to isolate the poor Stark child, and ordered the Poole girl removed. She wished to kill her, or give her to a loyal soldier as a gift, but I begged and pleaded to keep her for myself."

Alayne's eyes were wide and asked, "You tried to save her for…" she almost said 'me,' but caught herself and corrected, "Sansa?"

Baelish nodded. "I knew they were friends, and she was an innocent child. I had thought to reunite you, but that proved beyond my control." Here he put his hands upon his face, reflecting the grief in his words and cried, "Oh Sweetling, forgive me. For Cersei found the girl and forced her to play as Arya Stark. It is your little friend up in the North with Ramsey Bolton." He looked into her face, pleading, "Please, I did not know she would be taken and harmed. I thought her safely hidden away. Please forgive your father for not better protecting her from harm." He paused, his eyes soft as he stared into Alayne's, "That is the secret from which I was trying to protect you. I was trying to protect you from mine own folly. I am a father. I should be indestructible, but I failed to protect your friend. Please forgive me."

Alayne knew the longing in his voice to be true. The pain he felt to be real. The pain she suddenly felt for her little friend, of whom she rarely thought, was overwhelming and she jumped from her seat to cross the table and hug her father. He pulled her into his lap and she cried for them both, sniffling between sobs, "Of course I forgive you, father. I am so sorry I misjudged you. You are my own kin. You would never hurt me."

Littlefinger hugged her tighter, stroking and kissing her hair, and whispered, "You truly are my partner in this game now. From now on, no more secrets between us. All that I know shall be yours."

Alayne cried even harder at this proclamation, and snuggled deeper into his arms. After a moment, she exclaimed, "Oh father, I have been so unbearably bad!" Baelish burst into laugher and hugged her tighter. "I know, Sweetling. I know. But I am your father, and I am here to fix your mistakes. I am actually rather impressed. You used to be so meek and quiet. To trick Brune and travel all the way to the Bloody Gate…It was how I knew you were growing up and ready to be my true partner in the game of thrones. I was angry at your choices, but proud of you. Don't worry; I already took care of Ser Harrold. He will be leading a sortie today and unable to attend your feast, though I have it on good account he was ready to declare himself a slave to your beauty." He paused. "We still have plenty of time together as father and daughter before you must leave me to be a bride and rule in your own right. Don't rush away too soon, I would miss you."

Alayne laughed, relieved to not be in trouble, and suddenly happy to have more time with her father.

After quietly and comfortably resting in his lap, their conversation suddenly at ease, Alayne realized with a start that she was to have broken her fast with Lord Robert. She reluctantly stood from her father's lap and straightened her dress. "Do I look okay?" she asked urgently, hoping her eyes were not red from the tears.

"You look radiant," Baelish said simply, kissing her forehead. He kissed her again, lightly on the lips. "Splendid." She felt her belly flutter at the compliment before heading out the door with light feet.

Her feet grew heavier, however, as she reached Lord Robert's suites. He was still abed, despite the late hour, and ornery. "Where have you been?" he asked crossly from across the room. "You have kept me waiting."

Alayne mentally rolled her eyes. Did he expect her to dress him on her own name day? He could have at least bathed and dressed whist waiting. Instead she walked across the room, kissed his forehead and begged, "Please forgive me, Sweetrobin. My father wished to give me this dress for my name day and I wanted to wear it and show you."

Robert eyed her petulantly, but said nothing more about her tardiness. He did not want to cross hairs with Lord Baelish. Instead, he screamed for bathwater and asked Alayne to read to him while he bathed. She agreed as amiably as possible, and sat out of reach of Robin as so to avoid splashes upon her new mockingbird gown.


	16. The Mad Mouse V

**16. Mad Mouse V**

**All characters belong to GRRM**

Shadrich felt the weight of his eyelids and struggled against it. Perhaps mercifully, the weight won and he slept. When he next woke, and again pressed against the weight, he found it to be lighter. But still far too heavy, and he slept again in defeat.

He heard words, first. "Festering, needs to come off," and then he felt the pain. He screamed, but no one heard him, not the Mother, nor the Crone. The sweet Maiden had forsaken him, the Warrior declared him a brother no more, and the Father turned his back to his pain, smirking at his weakness. The Stranger walked up and placed his thumb deep in the wound, twisting. Shadrich continued to scream, but they were all blind to his pain.

Shadrich felt the weight of his eyelids and struggled to open them. He succeeded. He felt the throbbing of his arm, and remembered the Stranger pressing into it. He looked around fearfully, but was alone in a small, darkened chamber. He looked to his arm, wondering how badly the wound had festered to create such a pain. His arm was gone. He didn't understand. It must be too dark. The weight of his eyelids won and he slept.

He dreamed wild, fanciful dreams. He was fighting with Brienne in the courtyard of the Inn. Her sword was wooden, but still she was winning. He stumbled and fell. She pinned him to the ground and removed her helm. Luscious auburn hair, glowing more brightly than the sun fell to her knees, and Sansa Stark's face was behind the armor. "Give me back my father's sword," she threatened. He looked down and realized he held the shimmering Valyrian steel in his hand. "No," he screamed, "It is for Alayne Stone!" Sansa's face contorted with rage and she viciously hacked off his arm with her stick sword. He woke, sweating and screaming.

He frantically tried to move his missing left arm. He felt it moving, but it wasn't there. Panic overwhelmed him and soon a Septa rushed in to calm him. He bellowed for his arm, he bellowed for the Stark girl's sword, and he bellowed to know his location. He flailed his arms frantically, but only one moved, inciting more panic. _Where_ was his arm? He felt pressure against his lips and felt a vile drink warm against his tongue. It dribbled down his chin and into his ear. He coughed on the milk of poppy, and twisted in discomfort as it tickled his ear, but soon slept restlessly.

When he next woke, there was a dagger at his throat. "Seems to me you rushed away from battle, Mad Mouse," the voice whispered in his ear, a scraggly beard scratching his neck. "Maybe instead we'll start to call you the Frightened Mouse." Shadrich moaned and turned to face the Kingslayer. "Where is the sword?" Lannister asked casually.

"What sword?" Shadrich mumbled incoherently, feigning innocence. Lannister slowly removed the blade from his throat and placed it aside. Instead, he pulled up his stump of a right arm and waved it in Shadrich's face. "I know how confused you are, right now," he whispered dangerously. "And I know how much this will hurt," he added casually, as he pressed the stump against Shadrich's left shoulder, where, until recently, his arm had been attached. Shadrich screamed and blacked out.

The next time he woke he kept his eyes closed. But still, Lannister saw the fluttering of his lashes, or perhaps the change in breath. "Ready for a chat yet, Frightened Mouse?" he asked. Shadrich kept silent, hoping the Kingslayer thought him asleep. He felt the gentlest of bumps against his shoulder. He screamed. He passed out.

When he woke and realized Jaime's presence was still there, he tried a different tactic. "So you want the sword?" he asked in a casual manner. "It is on my horse. Still in the saddle pack." Lannister looked at him, eyes glittering. "You weren't brought here on a horse. You were picked up off the street, half bled-out." Shadrich's eyes widened and stared fearfully at the stump of a right hand waving in front of him. "Please, I swear it! I took the sword after the fight when the Inn collapsed from the snow. I galloped away. My wound was bad and I don't remember how I got here." He had a vague recollection of hiding the sword in the hollow of a tree, or perhaps he had dreamed he hid it in a tree, but either way, he certainly wasn't going to tell that to Lannister.

Lannister snorted in disgust at how quickly Shadrich's defenses were broken and left. He returned a short while later with a flagon of wine. Shadrich eyed it suspiciously, but Lannister took a swallow first to prove it was not poisoned. Lannister watched his eyes as he drank.

Shadrich searched around for a safe topic, but could come up with nothing other than, "Did anyone survive the collapsed Inn?" Lannister replied that most of Shadrich's men survived, scattered, and presumably had returned to the Gates of the Moon. A few patrons had died, and Brienne had broken a leg and rib in the fall. She was in a chamber next door. Shadrich cursed his luck for somehow stumbling to the same place of treatment. He knew Lannister was trying to get him drunk, so he fumbled for water to clear his head after he realized his wine cup was empty.

Jaime watched him drink the water wordlessly, but Lannister was famous for his impatience, and sure enough, he broke the silence first. "You know, you talked a lot when they were sawing off your arm." Shadrich winced, but muttered morosely, "No one answered." He vaguely remembered his dream of being abandoned by the seven. But what had Littlefinger heard? He again waited silently, sipping his water and hoping to convey disinterest. Lannister's impatience once again prevailed, and he continued, with a smirk remarkably similar to the Father's in his nightmare, "You seemed very interested in returning the sword to a girl named Alayne. Who is she? Your wife? Your whore?"

Shadrich had not remembered that dream. Certainly Lannister saw an unguarded moment in his eyes, but Shadrich knew he was trying to provoke him, so he retorted, "My whore. She always told me I needed a bigger sword." Jaime laughed despite himself and mentioned, "I hear that Baelish has a bastard daughter named Alayne. Tsk, Tsk….playing around with the Lord's daughter? Maybe you are a Mad Mouse."

Shadrich's jaw tightened, trying not to show his relief. Perhaps Lannister didn't connect the sword to the Stark girl and thought he was just trying to impress a woman.

"Littlefinger must not know, I'd wager. How did you keep that secret from the man who knows everything?" Shadrich did his best attempt at a sheepish grin and muttered, "I'm small, and I can hide in dark corners easily. My hair makes me look like a torch and people pass right by."

"You remind me of my brother," Lannister laughed, before he remembered and his eyes darkened. "My brother killed my father. Perhaps I should kill you before Littlefinger does…I'd probably be much more merciful."

"No thanks, I'll take my chances. Maybe he'll let me marry her. She is a bastard, and just a girl."

"Interesting, really. I've known Littlefinger for many years. He's spent plenty of time bragging about having Catelyn and Lysa Tully, but never mentioned a bastard daughter from any other wench."

Shadrich eyed him curiously, in spite of himself. "He had them both?"

"So he says."

"Hum."

Lannister rolled his eyes at the exchange as he drank from his flagon, and changed the subject abruptly. "Shadrich, I need that sword back. I'll pay you the difference in gold if needs be."

"I was telling the truth before," Shadrich lied. "I have no idea where it is."

"Well, if you ever want to see your bastard whore of Littlefinger again, you'll find it."

"Aren't you a knight, my good Ser? Sworn to protect the ladies? Sounds like an empty threat to me."

"I make vows all the time. Some get broken. And a whore is no lady. Brienne needs that sword," Lannister started, "its…" he paused, not sure how to finish. "All that is left of the Stark family to present to Sansa."

"Why does it matter so much that you find her?" Shadrich asked. "Are you planning to turn her in for killing your son?" Jaime slapped him across the face with his left hand, hard. Shadrich rubbed his jaw, and muttered, "Guess not. Maybe you have knightly visions of marrying her in place of your twisted brother."

"I should kill you now," Lannister growled.

"Try it, Stumpy," Shadrich retorted, until the irony of the words caused them both to roar with laughter. When his laughter waned, Shadrich filled the empty conversation, "I am glad I made the deal before I lost an arm."

"What deal?"

"She lost the duel," Shadrich pointed out stubbornly. "You two have to stop searching the Vale for Sansa Stark."

Lannister shrugged non-committedly. "The snow beat you both."

"An act of the gods, but in my favor. They judged me the victor. You two lost. Let me go and leave."

Lannister eyed him. "The Gods have been judging me too frequently, it would seem." He sighed deeply in recollection of a memory. "At least you are alive. Last time I was judged by a dead woman."

Shadrich had no answer to that.

Lannister continued, "We can't leave. She broke a leg and a rib. We need to stay here. We need to find that sword."

Shadrich pounced on the opportunity, "Fine, stay here and heal. But if I hear any word of you still hunting for the girl, I'll kill you both. Stay out of the Gates of the Moon during your wench's recovery. That's were I work and I don't you making off with my whore. If I see you again, I'll kill you both. You might have two arms, but you're missing your sword hand. And my sword hand is still intact."

Lannister rolled his eyes at his arrogance and casually lifted his sword to indicate Shadrich's own lack of weapon. He mentioned he'd discuss the deal with Brienne before leaving Shadrich to his wine and water. Shadrich remembered that the wench was as stubborn as a mule, but try as he might, he could not hear the conversation through the wall. Eventually he gave up trying to listen and fell back asleep.

When Shadrich next awoke, cloudy in his mind from the dreamwine, Lannister was waiting for him. "I give you my word as a Lannister that she and I will not search for the Stark girl while we stay here to heal for the next eight moons. Nor will we enter the Gates of the Moon and interfere with your whore."

"I don't remember the gods having a time limit." Lannister cursed him, but corrected, "She and I will not search for the Stark girl whist in the Vale. We will remain here for healing purposes instead. Nor will we enter the Gates of the Moon and interfere with your whore."

He took a gulp from the wine. Lannister seemed to always have wine with him. "Satisfied?"

Shadrich smirked and nodded.

That night, he crept out and stole a horse, his own long gone. He made his way back to one of Lannister's Gulltown businesses for money and men.

He desperately wanted to search for the sword before returning to the Gates of the Moon. He set one of the men to watch Lannister and the wench, and tried to retrace his steps. Try as he might, he could not find a hollowed tree with a sword hidden within. Perhaps he had just dreamed it. With a heavy heart, and an awkward sense of balance, he gave up and returned to the Gates of the Moon to face Lord Baelish.


	17. The Novice III

**17: The Novice III**

**These Characters belong to GRRM.**

**We are jumping forward in time, folks, or else this story will never end. Semi-sketchy plot device coming up…**

The Novice dipped a chunk of hardened bread into the weak gravy. He chewed mechanically, no longer savoring nor tasting the food. There was little to savor or cherish these days on the Quiet Isle, which was no longer an apt name for the small island. The Septon and his Faith Militant had effectively staged a coup and a large new Sept was erected on the southern shore of the island. Despite the heavy snow and shortened hours of light, the Faith Militant had managed to travel far and wide and spread word of its construction. Peasants from many leagues had trekked to the island for its protection. Or, more likely, he mused, the bountiful supply of foodstuff. In a few short months, the foodstuff was no longer ample, and he had been reduced to eating crumbs once a day.

The crown had forgot the little island, it seems, in the battle of the five queens. He snorted. Westeros certainly learned quickly that not all women were gentle and docile. True, sweet Myrcella was like as not just a pawn to the Sand Snakes in Dorne, but Asha Greyjoy was a terror that had single handedly killed Stannis and was battling the Wildings for the North and her uncle for the Pyke. Stannis' death had turned a new, unlikely queen to lead at the wall- the Asshai witch. Lady Selyse had crowned Melisandre with Baratheon's own crown. She had carved out a niche at the wall and she claimed to be battling for the light against the long night. As to whether Margaery Tyrell or the Dowager Queen Cersei still ruled King's Landing, well, that was anyone's guess. One hid behind the knight of flowers, the other a monstrous creature said to be bigger and crueler than his own brother. He supposed both were equally ugly, now, after Loras recovered from the boiling oil poured upon him in battle. The city of King's Landing itself was in control of the Tyrells, but Cersei, the lone Lannister left, refused to leave. And there were dark rumors of a sixth queen, more horrible than the rest, a Targaryen fire queen with three dragons that burned entire cities and left others to die of the grey plague.

The Novice finished his gravy and stood. He, and his other silent brothers were far outnumbered now on the island, and had isolated themselves in one small cloister. It was rather cramped, but at least the extra bodies kept them warm during the cold nights. No longer did a brother read or sing to them as they dined. Rather, each brother rushed through the dismal food as quickly as possible to return to the relative comfort of their cloister, away from the raucous sounds of the peasants overrunning the isle. He picked up his staff and walked out the door. He knew now that he would never again walk without a slight limp, and it had deflated him. The cane wasn't strictly necessary, but the brothers were all dead to the world, forgotten, so he didn't see the point of fighting his limp.

He walked to the stables, where Driftwood was housed. Even the fight to remember the horse's former name was futile. He gently stroked his nose and offered a chunk of bread saved from his plate. Much of the Brotherhood's assets had been confiscated as luxury items by the Poor Fellows of the Faith Militant, and sold or given away as the Septon saw fit. But Driftwood still kicked and fought, and the Septon had thought the black courser best left alone. Occasionally a spark of hope kindled in the Novice, and he considered mounting the beast and leaving the island, but he had no place else to go in the deep of winter. He had no desire to stay or leave. He had no desires at all.

It was dark. It was always dark. The autumn had been too short, and quickly the winter days darkened. 'Twas dark all but four hours a day, and the brotherhood no long burned candles nor lamps. Tonight the moon shined brightly, however, and his walk back to the cloister was uneventful, just like his life.

Once within doors he stooped to remove his boots, shaking the snow loose and placing them in his cubby with his spare tunic. The brotherhood was short on all supplies, and now must needs place a guard in the cloister to prevent the peasants from taking their own boots. He nodded to the guard on duty before stepping back into the sleeping room.

The new Septon had declared pillows and beds a wanton luxury, so he slept on the cold stone floor, wrapped in his cloak. Nothing he had not done before, when in battle, but it chaffed him now. Home should have a pillow. He drifted to sleep quickly, and slept late. It was dark, and the unhappy brothers had no hopes or reasons to wake early.

He awoke, the next day the same as the last. It was a never-ending cycle of boredom. He _almost_ wished to fear or ache, just to end the monotony. They were allowed but one meal a day, so the Novice shuffled about the cloister aimlessly. They no longer had land to care for when it was covered with snow, and he wasn't scheduled to scrub endlessly upon the stone floors for another day. After an hour or so of vacant exercise, the sky lightened and he saw the Elder Brother beckoning him.

For almost a moment, he felt a vein of curiosity thread through his body, but it was quickly deadened and suppressed. Nonetheless, he followed the Elder Brother to one of the granaries and heard him bolt the door behind their backs. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light provided by the narrow high-glassed windows (it was a wonder the Septon hadn't called the glass unnecessary and replaced it with waxen paper) and vaguely wondered why he had been brought here. To see the lack of food? He saw that only too well each day.

The Elder Brother spoke. The Novice jumped upon hearing his voice. Since the day the usurping Septon had insisted upon building the new Sept on the Quiet Isle rather than the Saltpans, the Elder Brother had taken a vow of silence, and fallen into a depression even deeper than his brothers. "Our Brotherhood will not survive this winter," his voice cracked, before gaining strength in his despair. "I have failed us all."

The Novice looked at him sadly, but didn't bother to speak. Not because he had taken a vow, but because there was no point.

The Elder Brother continued, "The Septon does not know of what I am about to show you. It is our only hope." The hint of curiosity returned as the Novice watched the Septon roll aside several barrels, pick up a spade, and dig a wide but shallow hole in the spot where the barrels had once stood. When the hole was complete, he crouched over and indicated the Novice should as well. Bending was sometimes difficult with his leg, but he used his cane and managed to stay upright as he crouched in the loose dirt.

The Novice looked down and saw a large iron box. He tried to tug it from the ground with one hand, the other still balanced on his cane, but it was too heavy. The Elder Brother ignored his attempts and lovingly brushed the last crumbles of soil from the lid. Once clean, he found the latch and opened it, though it was still buried in the ground.

Inside the box were treasures of every kind. The Novice picked up the top item, a small but well-wrought jewel-encrusted sword. He held it in the light and sniggered when he realized he recognized it. It was the Lion's Tooth, Joffrey's old sword, thrown into the Trident years ago by the she-wolf. It must have washed ashore here on the island. He placed it aside and pawed through the other items. All valuable items that had washed ashore or been left to the brotherhood. He found a blue rose wrought of sapphires and black iron. Near the bottom he found thick red rubies. He picked one up and looked questionably at the Elder Brother.

"Yes," he whispered hoarsely. "Rhaegar's Rubies." The Novice raised his eyebrows, silently asking why the Elder Brother was showing him these coveted treasures, risking their exposure to the Poor Fellows. The Elder Brother answered his silent question, "We will die if we stay here. My life is nothing, but I must protect our brotherhood. These can purchase their safety for the remainder of the winter, buy them shelter and bread."

The Novice snorted at that idea. Who desired a ruby in the deep of winter? Food was scarce throughout the seven kingdoms. Not even a fool would trade precious grain for a stone that cannot be eaten. Was the Elder Brother going mad?

The Elder Brother pleaded, "You are the only one left with a horse. Take Driftwood. Trade the rubies, swords, trade it all for your brotherhood." He paused, looking at the question upon the silent Novice's face, "Take it to the Vale. They have grain aplenty as they lost so many peasants during the first large snowstorm. You must needs convince Lord Baelish to settle a new village for our brotherhood."

Definitely mad, the Novice thought. Littlefinger would recognize him in a moment. In his pity for the Elder Brother he broke his vow of silence, "Like as not, Baelish would throw me in a cell rather than treat with me." He paused, startled at the coarseness of his voice. Had he always sounded so rough? His voice seemed alien, no longer a part of him. Unwanted memories resurfaced with the ugly voice.

"Why me?"

But he knew why. No longer a hound, but still a he was a dog. Loyal. He above all others would be loyal to the Elder Brother and not run off with the rubies. He owed him that; he owed him his life. He sighed. How was he supposed to reach the Vale in these snowdrifts, and alone? The mountain clans would tear him apart. It was a stupid idea, anyway. He had no desire to leave the island, yet to stay seemed miserable, as well. And it was true that they would starve before winter was half over.

The Elder Brother spoke again. "We are not friendless in the Vale. Our brotherhood has people well placed at the Bloody Gate. They have already made the negotiations, but Baelish wishes to see the rubies before publicly agreeing to set a tract of land for the faith. Apparently his daughter was raised by the faith, so he has a soft spot in his heart for us."

The Novice rolled his eyes, "Littlefinger doesn't have a daughter."

The Elder Brother corrected, "Bastard daughter. He apparently just learned of her existence."

The Novice could care less about Baelish or his poxy natural daughter and muttered, "I'll never make it to the Bloody Gate. The mountain clans will destroy a single rider easily." If the clans hadn't been in force, he mused, he would be in the Vale right now, with that she-wolf and a hefty ransom. Good thing he nearly died by the Trident instead. Baelish for the past few years would have been a worse nightmare than his silent vow.

"You just need to reach the High Road and our friends will escort you the rest of the way. They are already on their way to meet you. Let them speak for you. You just guard the rubies. He expressed specific interest in those. Once they have been turned over to Lord Baelish, enough horses and an escort will be given to you to return for our brothers. We can then all build our new Brotherhood together in an isolated portion of the Vale."

The Novice eyed him sadly. "I vowed to give up my sword. Are you asking me to pick it up again?"

"I'm sorry." The Elder Brother paused. "You are the only one who can ride that horse. You are the only one I can trust not to turn the rubies over to the Septon. You are the one who will save your brothers."

"Well," Sandor Clegane finally muttered, picking up Lion's Tooth, "You'd better find me a better sword than this sorry piece of junk. The last owner was unarmed by a scrawny little girl."


	18. Lyanna of the Pillow House

**Chapter 18: Lyanna of the Pillow House**

**A/N: All characters belong to GRRM**

**The language in this chapter is a bit more vulgar than I like, but it is appropriate for the character. **

Lyanna woke with a sudden start, both confused and excited by her dream, until she remembered that she was nobody and that therefore, the dream was nothing and did not apply to her. She was simply yet another pretty whore in a Yunkai-style house of pleasure in Braavos. She found the work dull and deeply missed her needlework, but all training was important in the House of Black and White, she often had to reminded herself. These skills she learned abed may be of utmost importance during some of her assignments. Men and their cocks, she laughed, before rising and dressing in a fine silk robe. She did not even need a needle to kill them now. She could kill one barehanded, twisting their neck while they moaned for more. Not that she had tried that, not yet at least. But she longed to. After two months in the house, she was completely trained in the seven sighs and sixteen seats of pleasure. She spent each morning practicing her Braavosi speech, particularly the dialect used by sailors and other men of ill-reput. It gave her satisfaction to curse as she wandered about her elegant suites.

Her vulgar language was exactly why she was in this particular pleasure house, the most expensive and elite in Braavos. She had wished to work at the Harbor Inn, where fights were regular and mayhaps she would have had an opportunity to join in a scuffle whilst learning her newest trade. But no, the Kindly Man had gently admonished her that while her skills in acting as a common child were sufficient, she greatly lacked the gentle courtship manner. In short, he had said she was uncouth, and no man of manners would want her in the same room as himself. How could she become a faceless man if she could not blend into a noble crowd? She must needs learn to be acceptable, beautiful, and make each and every person fawn over her and follow her will. To love her. She had wanted to remark that they had the wrong Stark sister, but then she remembered; she was nobody. She did not have a sister who had those very skills that she had both envied and scoffed. So instead she had asked why she wasn't being trained to be a courtesan. The Kindly Man had laughingly replied that some things were beyond even the power of the gods.

And so, two months earlier, when she awoke with blood staining her green blankets a dirty brown, and red streaks down her nightshift, she had cursed, refrained from chewing her lip, and knew it was time to begin the next stage of her training. She had to ask the Waif what she should do to staunch the flow of blood, because if her own lady mother had taught her, she had not paid attention to the lesson.

The Waif assisted her and then announced the next morning they had found a purchaser for her maidenhood. She had expected this; the temple of the Many-Faced God always needed more alms, but she couldn't help but asking, "Can we purchase a sword of Valyrian steel with the coin?" She desperately wished to once again own a sword, as Needle was safely tucked away below the rock steps.

The Waif had looked at her the big moon eyes and said in Braavosi, "No. You are nobody. Nobody does not need a weapon. Nobody cannot own anything."

Nobody had sniffed at this and exclaimed, "Not even her cunt, apparently. So who is he?" She hoped he was one of the sailors with a wooden leg and bird. She wanted to see just how smart those birds were, but had not yet had the opportunity to speak with one. The act itself did not necessarily bother her. She remembered ages ago, in a different lifetime, hearing Jeyne Poole whispering secrets with her sister, giggling and wondering what the act was like. Sansa had blushed, of course, she even blushed at horses rutting, but Jeyne had declared she heard it was fun, but painful from one of the serving girls.

She hoped it wasn't a fat man. Some of the men in Braavos over-indulged. She wondered if she would be crushed a fat man. What did their wives do? She had only seen thin, starved women mating when in Harrenhal. Well, if it hurt too much and she thought she was dying she could always stab him. She should make sure there was a knife nearby just in case.

And so, when the flow had stopped, she was given a beautiful face with pale blue eyes, and she picked the name of her Lady Aunt Lyanna, who certainly fucked…no, pleasured, she must remember Lyanna was a lady…. who pleasured a prince so long ago. She was said to be wild, beautiful, and made every man desirous of her. The Kindly Man said the name was wrong for a Yunkai house, and had given her another, more appropriate name. She ignored it; he wasn't the one stuck in the pleasure house.

She quickly discovered that they wouldn't let her sleep with the man right away. Despite being a maiden, she had needed training. Silly, she had thought, but she quickly learned some rudimentary skills in pleasuring before he was brought to her bed a month later.

Damn it, he was fat. It hasn't been too bad, though. At least he hadn't suffocated her. And then Lyanna continued her whoring training endlessly. She hoped the Kindly Man would let her return soon.

Truth be told, Lyanna did not see what was so exciting about the pleasure house. She learned to use her body in each of the seven sighs of pleasure, but felt no more emotions than the dogs pumping each other in the yard. Sure it _felt_ good, but no better than the pleasure she had felt when she killed that merchant. It was just another skill to be learned for her trade. Plus, she was bored. She sat about, feeding fruits to great men who had left their wives at home. She wished she could practice sticking them with her dagger, but the weapons had remained at the House of Black and White.

She rang her bell for a bath. By far the worst part of her training was the constant bathing. She smelled of roses and lemons each day, and had her lovely hair contorted into the most hideous of fashions. As she soaked in the warm water, her mind involuntarily drifted back to her dreams the previous night.

She loved her wolf dreams**. **She wasn't a stupid whore sucking a man's cock (no, no…she was a gentle lady, she pleasured men); she instead was wandering through lush snow covered forests, chasing prey and ruling her pack. But this last dream had shaken her. She had long ago stopped adding the Hound to her daily prayer; she figured him dead. But he had come back full force in her dream.

She had been sniffing the trail of her prey, a luscious shadowcat that had come down from the safety of its lair, when she realized the shadowcat was following its own prey. Her pack followed behind, the thick snow barely hindering their movements. She found the scent of the shadowcat's prey. A horse and man. It was a scent from when she had been but a pup.

Recognizing the man's scent, she left the shadowcat to her pack and pursued the man. Once she had left him for dead, she thought. Human thoughts mingled with wolf ideas. Should she kill him? He was no longer on her nightly list of people to kill. She thought him dead already.

Dimly she heard her pack devouring the shadowcat. She twitched her ears and heard the wind rustle through the leaves, but there were no leaves to be found on the trees. The sound of the rustle reminded her of her first pack. She continued to follow the man and horse, curious, though the day. Each time she considered stopping she again heard the trees whispering, the leaves rustling. New predators would appear, and she or her pack would bring them down. She wanted to attack the rustling trees, but it wasn't one tree, or any tree. It was just the wind howling like a wolf.

The man rode through the night, fearlessly, relying upon the moonlight to lead the way. The sun slowly peaked and she found herself tiring as the scent of other men appeared. She didn't desire to hunt this man today. She returned with her pack, the trees still whispering a name she no longer claimed.

She drifted back to the present, wondering if she still hated the Hound. He was just doing his own assignment, after all, when he had killed her friend so many years ago. Didn't she have her own assignments now? And he kept her from being killed at the Twins. She was musing upon these ideas when she heard her door open.

Her maid (she had never known that whores could have maids) was bringing her morning moon tea. She drank it without tasting and smiled when she saw the face of her maid change into that of the Kindly Man.

"Am I done training here?" she asked calmly, empty glass twirling in one hand, the other tracing the surface of her bath water idly.

A simple nod. "You have a new assignment." Her day was suddenly a whole lot better.

"Do I get a sword this time?"


	19. Alayne VI

**Chapter 19. Alayne VI**

**All characters belong to GRRM**

Alayne Stone stood to the side of the petitioning room, watching. The petitioning room at the Gates of the Moon was warm with a large fire crackling cheerfully in the hearth. Alayne much preferred it to the cold High Hall of the Eyrie. Her father had told her that today would be a _particularly _interesting day to watch the commoners call upon the Lord Protector, but thus far she had found nothing of interest and spent more time looking at the various gowns and jewels she saw upon the lords and ladies, rather than the commoners and their discussions of the mildness of the winter. Had they already forgotten the storm near on a year ago that had killed so many?

Next a knight rambled on about whether the High Road, which had been blocked for over a year due to high snowfall, should be better guarded. Apparently it had been cleared; perhaps by the mountain clans, but no one seemed to know who did it or, more importantly, why. But none of this was new information to her; her father discussed all of the minute details of the Vale with her at length each day.

It seemed rather peculiar to her that such talk of the mountain clans was again arising. Not half a year past a large festival had been held, celebrating the final removal of the clans. Either the Knights of the Vale were not as honest as they appeared, or someone was supplying the mountain clans with further men and weapons.

That festival had been exciting. Her auburn-rooted hair tightly bound and covered, she had appeared more septa-like than a young maiden flowered. She had been nervous that she would appear homely in her modest headdress, which would not concern her on a typical day, but that day had been anything but usual. The festival was her second time meeting with Ser Harrold. Her fears of appearing unattractive were largely unfounded. He had kissed her passionately in the dark shadows of the celebratory fire, warming her from head to snow-covered toe, as well as sparking new rumors throughout the Vale. Petyr had done his best to suppress the rumors, as their betrothal was still a secret, but the damage had been done. The Vale was rift with speculation, though all of it was on whether or not Harry would get a bastard on her. No one suspected a marriage alliance.

As warm as the kiss had made her feel, Harrold's words that night had been less than welcoming. He had been far too honest with Alayne, admitting he was siring yet another bastard, this time on a high-born girl. That meant three known bastard children. Three children to compete with their own future heir for the seat of house Arryn.

Though Petyr's reaction had been frustrating, by far the strangest response had belonged to Robert Arryn. Alayne had always known Robert, a sick and selfish boy, did not wish to share his toys, herself included, but when he barged into her room one dark night after hearing the rumors, he outdid himself.

Alayne awoke that night to a kiss. She had felt him sprawled atop her in the bed, kissing her as passionately as a ten-year boy can manage. She had turned her head, disgusted at the spit, and then heard him exclaim, "Now I've claimed your maidenhood! So tell Ser Harrold to leave you alone!" She would have laughed at his interpretation of claiming one's maidenhood if she had not been so startled. Apparently all that was required was to lay upon a woman and kiss her. She had pushed him away, a bit too forcefully. He had cried, screamed that she was his and he wouldn't share, and had yet another bought of his shaking sickness. She had tried to console him, agreeing that she was his, and that she would not dare dream of letting Ser Harry part them, not even for a minute.

After that night, she and her father had quite agreed that Robert was far too old to play at kisses with Alayne. She was forever grateful to her father; he had frightened Robert away from her rooms and bosom with threats that he would take Alayne away if Robert continued to kiss her.

Alayne returned her attention to the petitioning room. She continued to listen to the knight discussing the options of the High Road. As she stood upright, with all appearances of patience and interest, she glanced upon the face of Myranda Royce, standing to her right. She was grateful their friendship had once again warmed.

When her brown hair wash ran out after her fifteenth name day, she had quit sharing Myranda's bed. She could not risk her uncovered hair with auburn roots being seen by Myranda, or any other. Offended, Myranda, and Mya following her lead, ahd become withdrawn. They did not ignore her, but she felt their friendship declining nonetheless over several turns of the moon. The cheerful and lively court had felt cold without their friendship. Alayne had become reserved, and instead of building her friendships, she furthered her studies on the intricacies of Baelish's game of thrones. Yet she had longed for the company of her female friends, and had finally broken down in tears and begged her father to find her a new supply of dye. It took months, and presumably outright theft from the various brothels of Gulltown, but he had complied a mere fortnight previous.

The new dye was of poor quality, not like the imported Tyroshi wash, and faded out rather than permanently staining her hair. It did not give her quite the same rich chestnut color as before, but Alayne was overjoyed at the sheer abundance of the wash, and vowed to take better care this time of her supply. She found the diminished standards of the hair wash itself quite acceptable. Once again she would be able to behave like a young lady rather than a septa in practice! The very day she had redyed her hair she had humbly begged forgiveness for ignoring Myranda and Mya's friendly advances. She did it in a manner she knew Myranda would most prefer- brazenly knocking on her oaken door at evenfall and sheepishly admitting she was cold and wished for friends to warm her bed.

Myranda and Mya had looked shocked when they admitted Alayne into the room, but the coldness in their earlier manners left as quickly as the three of them could giggle over a shared skin of Arbor Gold.

Alayne had blamed the separation on her own melancholy; she was far better at lying now than she had been at King's Landing. And a lie told in kindness was acceptable, as her father often told her.

She had developed a large, complicated backstory to explain her sadness away. Petyr often told her the best lies were based in truth, so she had told her friends she had befriended Ser Shadrich, teaching him to read. He had been friendly with her, and had once or twice even helped her entertain Robert, no easy deed. She had thought, though not friends, he was someone she could trust. When Shadrich failed to return from Gulltown, she truly had been morose. A few weeks later, when she gathered her courage and asked her father about his failed return, her father had quietly informed her that Shadrich had died in a violent winesink brawl. Alayne had been saddened to hear this; besides Lothor Brune, he was the man she had trusted the most in Littlefinger's employ. Though she knew better than to trust any of them at all.

After Alayne had finished the Arbor Gold and her sob story, Myranda and Mya had welcomed her back with open arms, though the pillow tax that night had been frightful. Alayne was forced to conjure quite a few falsehoods on her friendship with Ser Shadrich to satisfy the two girls. She suspected they knew they were untruths, but Myranda took delight simply in hearing Alayne speak of anything that made her even the slightest way uncomfortable.

Myranda nudged Alayne back into the present and leaned over to whisper in her ear. In the hall, the knight was still droning on about the snow in the pass. Alayne leaned closer to hear Myranda's gossip. Surly it was better than the tedious discussion of snow removal.

Alayne knew that her father had plenty of birds chirping on command in his employ, and if she wanted to be a player rather than piece, it was her duty to find her own sources of information. But more oft than not, Myranda's talk was nothing more than a delicious bit of gossip. Today she pointed out the extremely rounded belly of Jeyne Waxley, the youngest daughter of Ser Edmund Waxley. "I can't believe she has the gull to appear in this room. Everyone knows Harry isn't claiming the baby to be his own. How could her father not banish her elsewhere as every other family does?"

Alayne tutted appropriately and nodded her mock agreement and anger. She already knew the baby was in fact Harry's, by his own admission, and there was no use in dwelling upon it. Their betrothal was still semi-private, and Jeyne had no way to know her appearance was an insult to Alayne.

Privately, Alayne but let her mind drift to her meeting the previous morning, from a source who had gathered her far more fruitful information than Myranda's fun gossip.

She had, after being told of Shadrich's death, been morosely walking about the grounds when she espied a nearly-familiar face. She had blinked, and then it was gone, leaving her trying to place the rounded face and wondering whether she had simply imagined it or not.

Several moons after, the face long forgotten, she had reluctantly agreed to build a snow castle with Lord Robert, trying to make amends for the kissing incident. Maester Colemon had long since banished Robert from the chilly weather, but Maester Colemon himself had been abed sick, and Alayne had ben so frustrated with Robert's behavior that she had agreed to go out-of-doors with him. They had ended up near the small Godswood, to break the wind the best they could. It had been bitterly cold, and she remembered that dusk was falling. Alayne had worn three pairs of thick woolen hose, but still her legs had shivered. She had been shocked that Robert had wanted to be out in such weather, but stubbornness was one of his better qualities.

Robert had soon tired of the snow castle, and instead insisted upon playing as the Winged Knight, his favorite hero. Robert was the Andal Knight, Artys Arryn, and Alayne was one of the vicious First Men he had driven from the Vale. She had internally scoffed at the idea of someone as weak as Robert pushing anyone out, much less someone like her, in whose veins ran the blood of the First Men. Still, she had politely feared Ser Artys, and futilely fought back against him. As she had stumbled in stick-sword play, she saw the same rounded, nearly familiar face from a few moons previous, peeking around a thin tree. This time they had made eye contact. She had jumped up, brushed snow from her cloak and quickly muttered that the First Man was running to his gods, the trees. Robert had laughed loudly at that and had let her run into the Vale's version of a Godswood.

She had furtively eyed her surroundings, but the copse was devoid of people. The day had been bitterly cold; she was of the North herself and had been quite cold. Those of the Vale were even less inclined to the cold and had stayed indoors, huddled around their fires drinking warm mulled wine and sharing tales. Alayne had looked deeper into the woods, and then back at Robert, fighting imaginary First Men. She had thought she was unseen, and had cautiously stepped into the thick of the trees so that any eyes peering from the castle would miss her. She had softly called, "Podrick! Where are you?'

He had stepped forth, bundled in a long cape. She had felt a rush of warmth as she looked upon someone from her past. He had worn the livery of one of the lessor houses of the Vale and had good, but well-worn boots. He had grown in height; he was as tall as she. His rounded face had remained childlike, but his eyes were wiser than before. He still preferred to look at her boots rather than eyes, it seemed, upon their first exchange of words.

The excitement of discovering him had quickly waned and she had been cautiously weary. Had Tyrion returned and was seeking his lost wife? "Pod, what are you doing her?" she had asked softly, in as friendly of a manner as possible. She remembered his ability to be spooked at near anything and had wanted answers without scaring him.

"I knew it was you, my Lady!" he had exclaimed excitedly, "I am looking for you!"

Alayne had shushed him. "Why are you looking for me?" her voice had been stern and free of the fear she had felt.

Pod had looked confused at the question. "You are the Lady wife of Tyrion, and I am his squire. Only I've lost him. Can you not help me find him?"

Alayne had breathed a sigh of relief. His expression had been so guileless, she could not have helped but to believe him. "I am truly sorry, Pod," she had said, shaking her head, "But I have lost my husband as well. I have not seen him since the night of.." she did not want to mention that night. "…since Tommen became king."

Podrick had looked sad, and Alayne had hastily added, "Please, it is not safe for my identity to be known. "

He had interrupted, "I know, my Lady. I will protect you."

Alayne had laughed sweetly and graciously said her thanks, but had firmly replied that she had her own protection.

Pod had looked at her seriously. "I protected him, you know. The queen tried to have him killed, too, and I saved him," he stammered, "The Hand, I mean. I mean, your husband. Tyrion. I can save you, too."

"Because she believed Tyrion had poisoned Joffrey?" Alayne could not see how Pod thought he saved Tyrion when all accounts had him missing or dead.

"No," he had shaken his head vigorously, "at the battle. At the Blackwater Bay. I saved him there."

Well, he was taller, but getting answers had still been like pulling teeth. Yet she had smiled despite herself. She had been surprised by her reaction. When she had last saw Pod she had been at the height of her despair. She had learned her Lady Mother and brothers were all dead, and she had been married to a Lannister. She knew they were all untrustworthy. Tyrion had been friendly enough to her, but so had Cersei and Joffrey in the beginning. Besides, Petyr had told her what Tyrion did to his first wife when he grew bored of her. Gave him to his guards to use and dispose of afterwards. When Tyrion himself had mentioned his first wife, on their wedding night, he had neglected to mention that little piece of information. Thank the gods Petyr had saved her from that abuse. So why should the sight of Pod do anything but bring up such memories? Why had she enjoyed that conversation so much?

Despite his stammering and eyelock with her boots, he wasn't all the same as before. His voice had changed. He no longer had a boy's voice, but had a raspy, hoarse voice that was ill-matched to his young face. She had smiled sweetly and asked, "How did you save him? You were but a boy! You weren't in the battle, were you?"

Pod had looked as though he didn't want to share his master's secrets, but she was his lady wife, after all, and he had pointed out, "Ser Mandon Moore tried to kill him. The knight. A White Knight, I mean. Queen's orders, I think."

Alayne had grown cold at the mention of Moore. He was the one who had been guarding her when she had gone to see Myrcella off to Dorne. It had been a bright warm day and Myrcella had bravely waved goodbye. She remembered Tommen crying and Joffrey's harsh mocking voice. Upon returning, Ser Moore had been assigned as her guard as they crossed though the streets. Yet Moore had abandoned her on her horse, leaving her to die when the mob erupted. She remembered the fear she had felt as rocks and worse dashed against her body. She had realized she was about to die, or worse, when she had felt a strong grip upon her arm as someone had tried to pull from her horse. But then, so quickly, the Hound had suddenly arrived and she had felt the arm pulling her release and fall to the ground, blood flowing indecently from it. She had been pushed upright before falling from the horse and nimbly he had been there, swinging his massive legs in front of her and taking the reigns. It had all happened so quickly. She remembered gripping the sides of his armor, and watching fearfully as the unfriendly faces were swiftly left behind. She instinctively touched her forehead, feeling the small scar, invisible to the naked eye. If the Hound had not been there… she would have had the same fate as Tyrion's first wife, after all. It was not worth dwelling upon. Not now. She was safe here in the Vale.

Alayne had realized that this bit of gossip shared from Pod was her own, something she had not heard first from her father. In that moment, she realized she had found her first informant to spy for her. Perhaps she was becoming a player, after all.

She had been in the trees long enough. "Podrick, I have to go. Can we meet again? Here, in a fortnight's time?"

And so had started Alayne's secret meetings with Podrick Payne. She was astonished at her daring, and wondered if she was truly hiding her secrets from her father, or if he was merely humoring her for his own amusement. Regardless, she felt powerful.

It had taken her few whispered meetings in the godswood, but she had finally realized why her time with Pod made her feel happy. He was someone who knew her as Sansa Stark. She was risking her life, but it was to gain back a part of her that had been suppressed. She has not even realized she was missing it. Just yesterday, she had stolen away in the dark of the morning to meet with Pod again.

Pod never had very much useful information, she knew, but it was pleasant nonetheless to meet with him. Yesterday, he had begged her to return with him to Gulltown. She had refused, as always. She was comfortable here, and being groomed to rule the Vale. Why would she leave? After they had exchanged these usual unpleasantries, he gave her what news he could find, which she deemed too silly to share with Petyr. She had kissed his cheek and thanked him for being loyal to her and her husband, wherever he may be, and set another time to meet again.

Perhaps she should end these clandestine meetings. She gained little knowledge, apart from that first meeting, and was truly concerned for Pod's wellbeing. What would happen if her father discovered him? She was busy weighing her options when the hall crier gained her attention.

She turned to watch a group of four men approaching her father, seated at the step of the high seat. She recognized the pair of Septons; one was from the Bloody Gate, the other the Gates of the Moon. Alayne thought it best to be friendly with them both, as she claimed to have been raised by the faith. But accompanying the two known men were two unknown men in dun-colored robes with cowl hoods and wool wrapped tightly about their faces. They gazed upon the splendor of the room. She thought the taller one stopped to look at her, but his eyes were lost in the shadows of his cowl, and when she blinked he had turned his attention back to her father.

The tall one walked with a terrible limp. He carried a sack in his arms and an unsheathed sword upon his hip. He kept his face down as he approached her father at the high seat of Arryn. He kneeled and carefully spilled the contents of the bag as one of the Septons announced they were trading six of Rhaegar's rubies for shelter and food throughout the winter years on behalf of the remaining brothers at the Quiet Isle.

The crowd watching had gasped. Were they really Rhaegar's rubies? Alayne and Myranda quickly exchanged their own surprise before the rubies themselves drew their eyes back to the high seat.

Alayne had observed court frequently at King's Landing and knew that important decisions such as this had been decided beforehand. She half-listened as Lord Nestor and her father determined where the Silent Brothers could be placed in the Vale, and where they could live until their new cloisters were built. But her eyes were mesmerized by the six rubies.

They shined a brilliant red, and were the size of pigeon eggs. The six rubies had been laid upon the wooden floor carelessly, between the rushes. She wondered if they were truly Rhaegar's rubies. She remembered the large dragon tapestries her father had whisked away from King's Landing before Cersei had been jailed by the faith. They were now safely under lock and key here at the Gates. Why was he collecting Targaryen relics? She had heard rumors, of course, of the Dragon Queen of the East, head of a vast army, complete with a three-headed dragon. Perhaps her father wasn't sharing all of his knowledge, after all. Was she likely to come here? Did he want to pay her homage?

Eventually her father reached down and picked up the six rubies, handing half to Nestor Royce to examine. They seemed satisfied and offered modest lodgings for the brothers at the Gates whilst they built their new home. A large guard was to go to the Isle and gather the remaining brothers and provide them with horses and supplies for the journey. Alayne was surprised to hear her own betrothed announced as the head of the rescue party. She hoped her father wasn't trying to punish her for an unknown reason; the High Road was never the safest of places.

The Lord Protector and Lord of the Gates of the Moon declared that they were done hearing petitioners for the day, and Alayne and Myranda, as soon as was appropriate, walked forward to touch the rubies.

Alayne held one in her fist, feeling the weight. She had often saw Queen Cersei in large emeralds, but the fire in the ruby was beautiful. She reluctantly returned it to her father, and they withdrew to their own rooms.

Her bastardness had not cured Alayne of desiring beautiful things, but she was content with her life. To be alive and safe, well-fed and loved by her father was enough. Yet that evening she dressed with more than her usual care, wishing she had such beautiful stones as the rubies to drape upon her chest.

She supped privately with her father. The six rubies lay between them on the table, glittering and sparkling by the light of the candle. There were so few hours of daylight that more oft than not, candlelight was the only light available. They had grown used to the dim lighting, but it made the rubies look more alive. She had been staring at them when Petyr ruined her reverie.

"I hear you have been running off to meet a boy." Alayne's heart stopped in her chest. She could hear the threat of Littlefinger under the soft caress of Lord Baelish's voice.

"Father." She paused. Should she protect Pod? Yes. He was just a child.

"I'm sorry. He means nothing to me." She gave a little laugh, "But I am a bastard, after all. You know we are of loose moral character." She gave a guilty smile.

"That story works far better for bastards not raised by the faith," he whispered dangerously. The kind mask of her father, Petyr Baelish, was gone. Only Littlefinger remained. "Are you trying to throw away everything I have worked to give you? This past year, I thought you had done very well. I'm preparing you to rule, you know, Sweetling. Do not throw my gifts away for someone less than worthy."

It seemed he thought she was meeting a secret paramour, not an informant from her past. So be it. She was never very good at crying on demand, but did her best to cry and stammer, "I just wanted to practice my kissing before I wed Harry. He is so experienced."

She knew he knew she was lying. He always knew when she was lying. She bit her lip nervously and vowed to stay silent. She did not want Pod harmed on her account. She still remembered Ser Dontos losing his life to keep her secret. She wished for no more blood to stain her her hands.

His mouth was softening, the hard thin line of anger dissipating. Alayne didn't understand. Her father slowly stood and walked to the door of his solar, laughing under his breath. When he reached the door, he firmly dropped the plank, bolting it shut.

"We don't want anyone overhearing anything they ought not, now do we, Sweetling?" he asked.

Still confused, Alayne slowly shook her head. Were they going to converse as Sansa and Petyr? They had not done that in well over a year. It was too dangerous, he had told her. She watched cautiously as Littlefinger slowly walked to her side. She was still in her chair. She glanced down at her bread trencher and dropped her knife, which still had an onion speared upon it. When had she done that? Her heart beat rapidly. She didn't know what she feared, but she knew she should be fearful. She gripped the edge of her seat with her hands and realized they were trembling.

Littlefinger stopped against the edge of her chair. He gently placed his fingers upon her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. "So my sweet daughter wants to practice kissing, is that it?" he asked.

Alayne felt trapped. Reveal Pod's identity? He was nothing to her. Why not? But inside she felt sick with herself for even considering it. She had no doubt his head would be upon a block if her father thought her in danger from him. She felt like she would faint from her fear, but whispered, "yes," so quietly that Littlefinger had to stoop to hear her answer.

"Well, Sweetling, we had better fix that, now hadn't we?" Alayne felt him pull her from the chair. She felt as though she had no bones in her body as he lifted her up. Her arms fell limply to her sides. Her fists were clenched so tightly that the next day her hands were sore and she could not understand why.

He father had kissed her inappropriately many times before, but those kisses had always seemed spur-of-the-moment, and had a lighthearted quality that, though they made her feel uncomfortable, never had made her feel worried. But this felt different. She was terrified. She realized she feared him more than she had ever feared Joffrey and his crossbow.

Her legs were like the dancing puppet dolls she had played with as a child. She felt Petyr pulling her against his body, his lips crushing her own. His right hand was against the back of her neck, pulling her head to his. His left arm caressed her hip.

He quickly pulled his head from the embrace, "I thought you had wanted to practice?" His eyes were hungry, accusatory, and she again had nothing to say except a softly whispered "yes."

"Perhaps you should act like it. One would wonder what you are hiding when you kiss like a Silent Sister. Shall we try again?" Her eyes closed, accepting her fate, and she did her best to kiss back. When she felt his tongue force against her lips she thought she would lose her dinner, but she reluctantly opened her mouth. All of her pillow talk with Myranda flashed in her head and she kissed back, hoping he would hurry and finish once he had 'taught' her to kiss. She mimicked his motions, and slid her own hand behind his neck, pressing his face against hers, her other arm against his back. Her tongue danced with his.

It was nothing like kissing Harry. Or Robin. She wanted to giggle at that last thought.

As his hands stayed in place, her fear waned, and she was surprised to realize she no longer feared and hated the kiss. Instead, as their rhythm grew, she soon realized she was in danger of laughing. It seemed so silly to feel her tongue licking his own. They were not dogs. In fact, her tongue did not even seem to belong to her. She felt as though she was in a mummer's show. No, she felt like she was watching a mummer's show, rather than taking part. She knew kissing was supposed to be enjoyable, and had very much enjoyed it with Harry, but in this situation it was nearly comical. As she gained confidence in her kissing, she stopped trembling, and did her best to satisfy Petyr's kiss. Because, as she felt the hardness against her, she realized, for the first time with a certainty, what game Petyr Baelish was playing.

When his hand caressing her hip finally shifted upwards to graze her breast Alayne pulled away. "Father!" She whispered, her face red, "I think I have learned quite enough for the night."

Littlefinger's scary demeanor was gone, and her gentle father laughed smugly and kissed her forehead before sending her off to bed.

Alayne curled under her blankets, deep in thought. Her elation and confidence at discovering Baelish's true game was gone in the dark of the night. She had initially thought the kisses meant he wished to marry her. She dimly remembered how he would look at her in King's Landing, as though she had no clothing, and remembered how he had loved her Lady Mother. Was she wrong? Was it her he desired? Or was she just another step in his game, to gain control of the North? Through marriage, she was technically the Lady of Casterly Rock. She was also the remaining true heir to Riverrun, if it were correct that her Uncle Edmure and his lady wife were locked away for life, and for all she knew, dead, and the Blackfish gone as well. Her future children should be the heirs to the Vale once she married Harry and Robert died. No, beautiful she may be, but no man wanted Sansa Stark for herself. They all wanted her for her claims. Littlefinger must be no different.

Was he truly then planning to wed her to Harry the Heir? Or would he find some way to keep her for himself?

She respected and loved Petyr Baelish. He was funny and kind, and loved her like a daughter. But what about Littlefinger? Littlefinger, she knew, was a brilliant and manipulative man. She wanted to be like Petyr. He was smart, and had raised himself high. And he did love her. He even killed for her, to keep her safe. Surely Ser Dontos would have told… and her Aunt Lysa would have pushed her through the moon door. In fact, she wished she were as brave as Petyr; had she merely pushed Joffrey off the battlement the day he forced her to look at her father's head… perhaps everything would be different. Why shouldn't she admire him?

Did she wish to wed him?

He loved her. He had killed for her. Yet a small part of Alayne's mind forced her to evaluating the reasoning behind the deaths. Reminded her why Lysa had been trying to kill her. Lysa saw Petyr kissing her. Since that kiss, Petyr had always kissed her behind closed doors. Yet why would someone as cunning as Petyr kiss her passionately in the open courtyard, with balconies, including her own Aunt's, that looked upon it? Had he meant for them to be seen? With sinking dread, Alayne realized the truth of this revelation. Had he meant for Lysa to find them? Had he wanted Lysa dead? "No, no, no" she whispered desperately to herself. How would he have known she would try to push her through the moon door? Mayhap Petyr had told Lysa it was Alayne's fault, the kiss. Didn't Petyr love Lysa? No, she reminded herself truthfully. He only loved Catelyn. When Lysa was no longer necessary, he had removed her.

Why was Lysa no longer necessary?

What had she accomplished? Through her, Petyr had the Vale. Was that all? He could not have taken the Vale if Jon Arryn was still alive. Alayne remembered the frantic words of Lysa, "tears". Her Lady Aunt had poisoned her own lord husband, she knew, though she was loathed to admit it to herself. And it had been Littlefinger that told her to do it. "For love," Alayne whispered, trying to believe it. But it wasn't love. He had simply wanted the Vale. But it was because Lord Arryn was dead her own father had died. The Starks would have been safely in Winterfell, and no war would have occurred if Jon had not died. "But he did not do it on purpose," Alayne whispered to herself. But she couldn't believe that. Littlefinger didn't love Lysa. He didn't need the Vale when he had a comfortable place at court. Had he wanted to cause all this trouble?

Petyr said every death had been to keep her safe, but her safety meant nothing unless she was part of his plan. She knew now that she was his ultimate piece, to shape and manipulate in his game. Would he kill her as soon as she became useless, just like her Aunt and Ser Dontos?

Knowing that, did she wish to wed him? They could rule Westeros. He often told her young maidens were happiest with older men. Had he been foreshadowing their own union?

"_No_" she whispered urgently. She saw him ordering Dontos' death, shoving her Aunt Lysa through the moon door. How quickly he had turned to lie and place blame on Marillion. If he did such actions in front of her, what did he do when she was not looking? How was he so successful as master of coin in King's Landing? What powers did this man have? And didn't she want those powers on her side, rather than against her?

What powers did she have? Could she even beat him at his own game?

It felt like a lifetime ago when she had become drunk upon wine with Queen Cersei in King's Landing. Cersei was the first to tell her that a women's weapon was not the armor of courtesy as she had been taught, but that it lay between her legs. Alayne shuddered at the thought of bedding Littlefinger. She had best find a different weapon, and soon.

She felt much older than her years. But she had harbored doubts on Petyr's behavior before. And he always explained himself fully. What about this time? Might she just not understand all of the complexities? Regardless, Petyr Baelish was the reason the Starks had been decimated. Alayne's heart grew as cold as her surname.

When dawn broke, she realized she had not yet slept.


	20. The Uncertain Man

**A/N: Sorry this one is so short. But at least you got two chapters (20 and 21) in one day! **

**Chapter 20. The Uncertain Man**

After presenting the rubies to one of the vilest men in Westeros, Sandor Clegane retired to the small chamber of which he had been given free use for the night. Though small and windowless, it was an extraordinarily private space for one so lowly as a brother of the seven. The promise of priceless dragon heirlooms apparently brought out the friendly side of the Lords Littlefinger and Royce. He sat heavily upon the bed- he had checked earlier, and the mattress was even feathered- and pulled his boots from his feet and reclined against the pillows to better massage the ever-present ache in his thigh.

Clegane relished the secluded room after the harrowing few months of clutter on the Quiet Isle. Or rather, he had enjoyed the room hours before, when he just arrived at the Gates of the Moon and had not yet presented the jewels to the Lords. But now his mind was full of turmoil and uncertainty. He was sure he had noticed Sansa Stark standing in the Hall, gossiping cheerfully with a short busty woman beside her. True, a pair or more years had passed since he saw her last, and he tried to convince himself that she was merely a women who resembled the little bird, but try as he might, he believed, deep in his bones, that it was the Stark girl.

She flew away, all right. But not far enough North. She flew into an even bigger pot than the one brewing in King's Landing. Clegane was not sure there was anyone he could despise more than that trickster Imp, who was always laughing at his faults, but Littlefinger was perhaps even more cunning and deceitful. He was friendly to your face and stabbed you in the back. The poor little bird. Plucked first by a monster who frequented brothels and then by the Brothel owner himself.

But what to do? In King's Landing he stood by and watched the knights she so adored beat her. She quickly learned there was nothing to adore in a knight, but learning that lesson didn't lessen the abuse. Occasionally he helped her when he could, a handkerchief one day, a cloak to cover her bare teat the next. But his one offer to take her away was rebuked. And rightfully so, he had been a drunken bloody mess with a knife to her little throat.

Did he stand by and watch Littlefinger corrupt her? Perhaps he already had. The Hound was dead. Maybe Sansa Stark was dead as well; a personality lost in the War of the Five Kings, and no one but left to mourn the loss. Except for himself. Now he was forced to spend a winter with the shell of the bird, a shadow of the innocent girl lost.

"Is that my penance?" He growled angrily at the Seven, clutching the crystal swaying from his neck. Then he remembered he didn't believe in the Seven, or any gods, and dropped it in frustration.

Strong emotions notwithstanding, he had no particular plan or action. He had spent the years previous living in quiet peace, living simply, and being told what to do. Eat now. Dig a ditch here. Churn butter there. It was an easy life, not having to worry about thinking and making his own decisions.

Not a sennight ago he had taken a harried flight atop Driftwood from the Quiet Isle to the High Road. He had been surprised at the emotional toll it had extracted. After years upon the Quiet Isle he was used to a community, a sense of belonging. Rather than a thrilling adventure, the trip had been stressful; a wolf followed him, and he was all alone. He had realized the sword dangling from his side was a nuisance. He'd wished it gone, though he had kept it for his own personal defense. Had it always smacked against his leg in such a manner? On that short journey, he finally and fully grasped, for the first time, that he was no longer a warrior. Just a broken man, tired of war, wishing for a home and acceptance. He had long been that broken man, but never fully accepted it until that moment. The epiphany had shocked him, but with the realization came acknowledgment that he had been resisting the brothers. He would no longer resist. When he returned to the Quiet Isle, he would ask to be raised from a novice to a full monk. He would receive a tonsure and bear it humbly, and pray that he could accept the gods as his own someday. He was ready. Truly he had thought the Hound was dead.

But now?

Would a man of the Gods leave the innocent bird in her cage? Or would he strike the chains away and let her fly free?

He prayed to the Crone, asking for guidance. He wished in his heart that she were real and would listen.

After fruitless prayers, he realized his answer. He would ask the one man who had guided him these past years. He owed the Elder Brother that much.

The next morning he, the other brother with the eyes like Sansa Stark, and a large crew of men and mules left the Gates of the Moon to return the Quiet Isle. There were many more mules than men, for carts were sure to be slow or impossible in the snow. Thus, the mules would carry burdens besides men, the brotherhood's meager possessions, back to the Vale. The brotherhood was relocating, and it was Clegane's duty to make sure it was done safely.

**A/N: As far as I know, we haven't been given the 'steps' for what happens after becoming a novice in Westeros. But we know it is a monastery on the Quiet Island, so I feel okay saying the next step is 'monk'. If anyone has better thoughts on that, I'd love to hear it. **

**Also, thanks for all of the reviews! They always feel great to get! Sorry I am so slow at publishing this. Also that this particular chapter is so short! Also sorry for the grammatical issues…I know one review mentioned I often have problems with the tense of the story. I'll try to be on the lookout for those. **


	21. The Elder Brother IV

**A/N: I posted two chapters today, so make sure you read chapter 20, too!**

**Chapter 21: The Elder Brother IV**

The Elder Brother stood upon his no-longer-Quiet Isle, watching the Northern Shore. The island was his home, and the thought of abandoning it made him feel wretched inside. The Hermit's Hole had existed for thousands of years. He would be known as the brother who gave it up. Sometimes he wished he had not trusted Sandor Clegane with the rubies. Perhaps it was more noble for them to die rather than abandon the isle to the Faith Militant. But he was weak, as all men are when it comes to life or death, and wished to live.

Each day he had stood here, upon the shore, watching and waiting for the horses to appear and whisk his silent brothers to safety. Each day he prayed to the Crone to keep the snowstorms at bay and allow Clegane's safe return. A light scattering of snow had fallen; the island was peaceful and bathed in a beautiful white blanket.

He hadn't thought to pray against invaders. He had thought them here already, and had named them: The Faith Militant. He should have looked to the bay. To the east, not north. He should not have been complaisant.

The ships arrived, as if by a dark magic. He stared, confused. Why had the ships not been pierced by ice? Their sails were black, with golden krakens upon them. Reavers. But if the ravens that had arrived recently told truths, they were no longer mere reavers. They were claiming lands, expanding the Iron Islands' lands…and slavers.

It was time to see whether the Faith Militant was of use or not.

They were not.

His sword was heavy in his arms as he tried to dance with the krakens. Once he was an excellent swordsman, and still today he was strong, but the practice was lost. In his battle, the world was reduced to two, no longer was he fighting for his brothers, but his own life.

The sword slipped.

He fell.

Later, he was roughly pulled to his feet, his arms already tightly wound with rope. He did not remember being bound.

He looked around. The battle had lasted hours. Or minutes? The sun was still in the same location. Bright red blood stained the virgin snow. Bodies of the old and weak were discarded and had been left where they fell. Terror both filled and eluded him. He could at the same time realize his future- a slave across the bay; yet he could not comprehend it. He would not. It was too much.

He sat in a dingy. He didn't remember climbing aboard, but suddenly realized he was no longer standing when he felt the boat shift with the dip of the oars. Chunks of ice drifted near and he wondered idly if they would hit the boat and sink. Would drowning be worse than slavery? He realized blood was dripping from his brow to the corner of his eye. He shook his head impatiently, trying to clear his vision. _This_ he could comprehend. He shook his head harder, trying to control this one aspect of his life, trying to prevent the blood from temporarily blinding his left eye. He failed. He desperately looked North once again through a curtain of blood. And still Sandor had not arrived. He wasn't sure if he was grateful or angry.

He boarded the ship. He was hustled below the main deck and steel replaced the rope about his arms. He was chained to a space on the wall. He felt bodies crammed next to him on both sides against the wall as well as in front of him. He slumped to the ground, still silent.

In time, the cabin darkened. He realized through the fog of his mind that the source of light was gone. They were done loading the ship. He felt a slight swaying as the ship began to move.

He was still the Elder Brother. It was his duty to reassure his men. "Brothers," he whispered, voice cracking. He tried again, putting more force behind his voice, "Brothers! How many of us remain?"

He heard a woman hiss for silence, and he realized that the brotherhood was not alone on this ship. They were just one stop of many before heading to Slaver's Bay.

But nevertheless, he heard his brothers speaking up, shouting their names. He counted. Only five of his own men. Seven from the Faith Militant. Including himself, thirteen in total. He waited to hear more names, more voices, more survivors. But there were no others.

"We are men of the Faith. We will stay strong when faced by our tormentors who believe in false gods. The thirteen of us have joined those of you already here. Who are you?" he inquired in the darkness.

But again they simply hissed, and soon he understood why. A shaft of light was appearing from above, and a kraken appeared, shouting incoherent words. He heard rather than saw the whip. As it struck, he heard a woman scream. He was standing and shouting at the injustice-she had not been the one speaking- before his own words turned to screams.


	22. Alayne VII

**A/N: Thank you for all the reviews. I think this might be my favorite chapter so far. It took way too long to get here, though!**

**Chapter 22. Alayne VII**

Many times in her former life Alayne had felt like a woman rather than child. When she learned she would be married to Prince Joffrey, she had felt quite mature and queenly. When she had confided to the Queen her father's plans to whisk her away from King's Landing, she had thought herself cunning and loyal to the crown and her future king. When she watched her father lose his own life, she knew her childhood to be over. Upon learning of the loss of her brothers, and then her mother, she knew she would never play again. But she had been wrong. She had still been a child- young, facing terrible difficulties, but a child. Because what is a child but a pawn of the parents or guardians, to discipline, love, or marry off as they pleased?

She could no longer play the role of a pawn. The wool was removed from her eyes, and she missed it deeply. The reassurance of a parent, a guardian. Even in King's Landing, parentless, alone, and beaten, she had her own life, and knew she would keep it, despite Joffrey's frequent threats.

Now, to keep her life, she had to stay atop the game. Continue to be useful, but not controlled, by Littlefinger.

She began to laugh from beneath her thick woolen counterpane. She wondered if she were going mad. She felt _thankful_ to Joffrey and Cersei. For had they not trained her to say what people wanted to hear rather than what she thought? Had she not learned to lie? The nightmare that was King's Landing was simply training for the rest of her life. Who better to survive it? How many other members of her family had survived? Just her. She was the survivor. She had lasted in a den of lions; certainly she could manage one mockingbird.

And so Sansa returned to her mask of Alayne Stone. It was simply survival. She rose from beneath her warm blankets to stare intently into her small piece of polished silver. She practiced laughing, blushing, smiling, and giggling. She was ready for the day. She _felt_ different. She couldn't pin the feeling exactly. But she was no longer simply trapped and hiding, as she had been in some form or another for years. She was taking action. She was afraid of failing, but excited, as well. She dressed modestly, but proudly displaced the silver mockingbird pin at her breast.

She broke her fast with Lord Robert, who was feeling well enough to order the castle about from his bed. They nibbled together upon oats, honey, and fresh fruit from the one glass house that survived the early winter storm. The silence of chewing was too much for Lord Robert, who quickly became bored and commanded Alayne to read out loud.

She pulled a wooden stool beside his bed, reading, as always, the tales of the Winged Knight. "Ser Artys Arryn was in a fervor to spread the word of his glorious seven gods to all infidels. By his own declaration, the High Priest Hugor of the Hill, on whose brow the first crown of the seven sat…"

"Alayne! Skip to the fighting! I don't need a history lesson of the gods just because _you_ love them so much," Robert sniffed loudly, crossing his eyes and pinching her arm painfully. Alayne squirmed away carefully, apologizing as she rubbed away the pain of the pinch. "Forgive me, Sweetrobin. You must forget that I am not as brave as you. Why, if you had lived during this time, I am sure you would have been just as exalted as Ser Artys! Imagine had you been but grown for the War of the Five Kings! I'm sure you would have conquered them all! It is such a shame we have missed all of the glorious battles the rest of Westeros has been privy to watch. I so do wish we had been able to watch knights joust in their glory."

With this, Alayne carefully flipped the pages forward past the religious homilies and resumed, "And so, laden with the task of expanding the word of the Seven Gods, the Winged Knight crossed the narrow sea…"

Alayne broke off at this point, as she always did with Robert, to contemplate how the Winged Knight crossed the narrow sea. She thought by ship, as he had many men with him, perhaps the sails represented wings, but Robert delighted in the idea of a giant falcon, which the legends stated as truth. Alayne knew dragons had once populated the entire world. She wondered if once it was commonplace to ride them, or whether it had always been just Targaryens. Did people once ride all manners of creatures, including falcons? She let Robert win, as always, when he declared, "…And that is why the Eyrie is impregnable! Only one with a falcon such as Ser Artys could build or conquer such a magnificent castle!" He grinned, and bellowed, "If we had a falcon, we could MAKE IT FLY! We would never lose!"

Alayne smiled, as always, but she thought it rather easy to defeat the Eyrie. For had they not been surrounded and subsided on a meager provisions when they last resided in the Eyrie? Had the Lord Declarants not succumbed to her father's charms, they would have eventually starved. There would be no hope of resupply via man, dragon, or falcon when stuck in that dreary castle! Really, it was a stupid castle, she thought. For it was too easy to simply trap the rulers within. Why should anyone obey a ruler so far away? She much preferred it here in the Gates of the Moon.

"Robert, have you have practiced Falconry?" Alayne asked suddenly. "We could truly make a falcon fly, then!" But the boy shied away; he could express his wishes vocally, but to actually attempt them he needed bravery, which he sorely lacked. Instead, he sneered, "What could a bastard know about Falconry? You wouldn't be allowed to do it. That is a sport of the highborn."

"Forgive me, my sweet Lord. I forgot my place. Shall I continue to read to you?" she asked with a perfect smile. When had she last held a falcon? Was it with Margaery, during their brief friendship? It felt like a lifetime before. As though it was someone else. Truly, Alayne Stone had never practiced the sport.

Robert gestured for her to continue.

"…The Winged Knight crossed the narrow sea upon his trusted falcon. Upon landing, he beheld a land rich with fertile grains and grasses. The sun was glorious, shining brightly upon the many leagues of the green vale. He knew the Gods had destined him for this land. The sun served as the Crone's lamp, brightly guiding Ser Artys to his new domains. But others had already claimed these riches as their own. They were known as the First Men. The First Men were cruel savages, little more than animals…"

At this point, Robert jumped from his bed and pretended to stab the First Men as Alayne continued reading. She read quickly, knowing he was sick and would soon exhaust himself. She timed the story perfectly; he fell back into the bed exhausted just as the Winged Knight himself rested upon the mountain after vanquishing the First Men.

Alayne clapped and cheered for his sword skills as she closed the book. "Bravo, my Lord! But how I wish we could watch real knights in shining armor! Would it not be delightful to watch? It is so dreary here in the winter. So cold, and so few hours of daylight and enjoyment."

Robert finally caught Alayne's not-so-subtle hints and grinned, "Yes! We should have a tourney! My people would be so pleased! We will have knights and jousting and a melee!" Alayne smiled happily. Once again, she was no longer a piece. She was making the game move on her own. She was thrilled, and hugged him tightly in excitement.

"And I shall enter as a mystery knight! I'll take your favor and win the entire tournament!"

Alayne was slightly alarmed at that declaration, and, releasing Robert from the hug, suggested gently that the knights would want to honor Lord Robert. If he were to enter as a mystery knight, for whom would they fight? He frowned at the logic of it, but acquiesced when she assured him that he could still wear her favor even if not participating in the melee.

"Let me help you dress. Do you wish to inform my father of your plans?" Alayne didn't want him to forget and not follow through with the tournament idea. It was the penultimate part of her plan as a player.

"Yes, let's see him at once!" Robert shouted happily. But the shout was followed by a bout of coughing and wheezing.

"Oh, dear Sweetrobin," Alayne gushed, cradling him in bed and caressing his head. "You rest and get strong. We'll talk to him after you rest for a few hours. How does that sound?"

He calmed. The shaking was avoided, thank the Gods. She sat next to him, gently stroking his hair, until he fell asleep.

Alayne found her father in his solar, peering at one of the rubies through a maester glass. He allowed her to enter, staring closely at her face. "Father," Alayne said brightly, kissing him upon his cheek. She made sure to place the kiss just slightly closer to the lips than a daughterly kiss should be placed. Let him think about that, she thought to herself, blushing. She remembered she blushed around Ser Loras a lot. She just had to pretend her father was Loras and not a slimy monster.

"You look quite cheerful this morning, my Sweetling." She grinned back, recklessly remarking, "Perhaps I had plenty to think about whilst abed last night." Truly, it was not hard to do. Had she not been trained to turn men's head since a young age?

She thought she saw Petyr blush briefly before he beckoned her to sit beside him and stare at the ruby beneath the maester glass. She sat, slightly closer to him than she would naturally prefer.

"It is beautiful," she gasped truthfully when she looked through the glass. The glass magnified the ruby and she saw it sparkle and shine. "What will you do with it? With all of them?"

"I'll tell you for another kiss," he teased. Was there hope in his eyes?

"Father!" Alayne admonished him, tugging gently on his tunic to gain his attention. "What happened to being careful?" She wagged her index finger in his face, teasing, "no kiss. You'll get spoiled. How do I even know that what you will share is worth the kiss? You are very cryptic, you know. You had better tell me first." She grinned up at him. If she focused on his nose, perhaps he could be Loras.

Petyr rose and slowly, deliberately, walked to his desk. He pulled a letter from the top of a neat pile and nonchalantly fanned it in the air. "I'm willing to exchange the content of this _very interesting_ letter for one little kiss." He said the words lightly, but his eyes scanned her body, sending shivers through Alayne. "Deal?"

"Deal. But-" she stood and snatched the letter, "I get to read it first!" She giggled and ran to the opposite corner of the room, glad her face was no longer visible.

Amused, Petyr didn't pursue her, but went back to studying the ruby.

Alayne sat upon a settee and caught her breath before studying the document. She took her time, adjusting a candle on the table adjacent. She glanced at her father. He was still patiently staring at the ruby. Did she detect a slight smirk on his face?

Eventually, she decided she had teased him enough and looked at the letter. The seal was broken in half. Unfamiliar to her eyes, she rerolled the letter trying to put the pieces back together. She gasped when she realized it was a three-headed dragon. She opened it eagerly, thoughts of her game with her father forgotten.

It was addressed to her father, the Lord Protector of the Vale and to Lord Robert Arryn. The contents were astonishing and she reread it twice before shakily approaching her father.

"Father- is this a jape?" she asked weakly. "Is the Dragon Queen truly coming here?"

"Well, I do not know whether the Queen herself will deign to visit, but she needs to feed her armies, and the Vale is one of the few places with foodstuff after the war."

"Why isn't she simply invading? Why warn us and give us an opportunity to surrender?"

"My dear daughter, I've been planning for this moment for quite some time. Always be prepared, you know. Why else did I send for these rubies? Or those dreadful Targaryen tapestries that took two moons to arrive from King's Landing?"

"You are protecting us. You knew we would lose a battle?"

"My Sweetling, they have three dragons. I rather think we would lose quickly. It is winter. I cannot afford to run and hide. And so, we surrender gently, and become the Dragon Queen's first allies. It is clear she will win the final war."

"Oh." It was all Alayne could think to say. Perhaps she should stop pretending he was Loras. She had acted mindless around Loras, as well. She needed to keep her wits.

"You still owe me a kiss," Petyr reminded her.

"Oh, yes." She gently kissed his check, too shocked to play the game of wanting him, but he did not pursue her further.

"Am I going to die? My father helped usurp Aerys," she worried.

"Alayne Stone's father is going to be Daenerys Targaryen's greatest ally," Petyr reminded her.

"Oh yes. That's right," she muttered absently.

"You are shocked, my dear. I am sorry. I thought you ready for this. Perhaps I pushed you too quickly." Petyr cupped her chin and looked into her eyes. "Are you well?"

"Yes, father." She paused to collect her feelings. It was difficult to do whilst staring into his eyes. "I know you will protect us from harm."

Her mind was working furiously. Would Littlefinger throw a wolf to the dragons, so to speak? Or did he still need her? She was uncertain. But clearly, once again he was many steps ahead of her.

Her elation at maneuvering Robert was dimming.

"Why did you stop by this morning, Sweetling?" Her father asked, trying to shake her from her fears. He released his hand from her chin and instead gently held her hand, absently worrying her palm with his fingers.

"Oh, yes," Alayne gushed, happy to be upon her own ground again. "Robert wants to hold a tournament. I just thought I would warn you. He sounded quite adamant, but I thought it might actually be a good idea. Everyone is so weary of winter. Perhaps it would be a good change of pace."

"And you might get to see a certain knight?" he asked pointedly, pulling her arm and forcing her once again to look into his eyes.

She laughed and blushed, averting his stare. "Well, I wouldn't want last night's lesson to go to waste, now would I? Aren't I supposed to win his heart and title for us, father?" She mischievously looked back up to his face.

He raised his eyebrows. "For _us_?" he asked, dropping her hand.

"Of course. I am sure that after all the trouble you took to acquire me, you would not let me go that easily," she archly remarked.

He shook his head and turned to seat himself at the table. "You are too intelligent for your own good." Alayne blushed with pride at his words.

"Please let Robin tell you of the tourney himself?" she asked, "He was very enthusiastic and pleased with himself."

"No doubt of that. The child is a conceited menace, but," he sighed, "I'd wager everyone is tired of staring at nothing but snow. Anything else? I am very busy this morning."

"No." She turned to leave before she remembered, "wait, father! The name. On the letter." She rushed back to his side and pulled the letter from the desk. "It was signed by the hand of the queen, 'Hugor Hill'!"

Petyr raised his eyes, indicating she should continue. "Hugor Hill!" Petyr did not seem to recognize the name. She paused, trying to remember the exact phrasing of the scripture she had memorized as Alayne Stone, the faithful worshiper of the seven. "It says in the _Seven-Pointed Star_ that, 'the Father reached his hand into the heavens and pulled down seven stars and one by one set them on the Brow of Hugor of the Hill to make a glowing crown.' Do you remember? Hugo Hill is the first king of the Andals." She paused. "Hugor Hill is also in the Winged Knight tales. He sends Ser Artys Arryn to the Vale to vanquish the First Men."

She took a deep breath. "Are you sure they will let us surrender peacefully? They might be coming to annihilate us."


End file.
